Summary:
Fifteen years ago, he was the Ministry's top Unspeakable.
Fifteen years ago, he was given up for dead.
Fifteen years ago, they laid his memory to rest with poignant eulogies and rather more relief than was strictly proper.
Fifteen years later, the Dark Lord is rising again, and they're in for a bit of a surprise.
Spoilers: All four books, eventually.
Author's Note: I'm not sure how much sense this first chapter will make, but I thought I'd give it a try. This is my take on the so far unseen world of the Department of Mysteries. It's a little too Hollywood-ish for my taste, but hey, my muse doesn't seem to care much. She's in charge here, not me, and she's the one, by the way, who made me put down Chapter Ten of Ad Infinitum to get this typed before the idea flew my mind. All complaints can be directed to the little box at the bottom of this screen--I'll see to it that they're forwarded to her immediately.
Disclaimer: I claim very little as my own. Karl Schmidt is mine, though his original identity was based somewhat off a character in the movie my brothers convinced me to watch just this weekend...maybe the name of the opened file will give you a hint, supposing you've watched the movie. Karl will also be figuring in Ad Infinitum shortly, which is actually what I developed his character for. Alice Wilkinson is also mine. Croaker and Bode belong to me, although their names are J. K. Rowling's. In fact, she really owns most of this. It's all J. K., people...as usual!
Fifteen
Chapter One:
Karl Schmidt was a Muggle.
He also happened to be an Unspeakable in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries.
It was only because of a series of completely random events that he even knew the wizarding world existed--a series of random events, and the unlikely chance that he happened to be part of the approximately 0.0007% of the population that was resistant to memory charms.
He could recall the day he'd first been hit with one with extraordinary clarity. He'd been walking to a café across the street from where he ostensibly worked--to be precise, he spend a large number of his waking hours in the book shop, but his real job had little enough to do with shelving biographies of Benjamin Franklin and Winston Churchill--when, completely and utterly without warning, four men had dropped directly out of the sky. Wearing long navy robes, carrying thin sticks with sparks shooting out of the ends, and riding on broomsticks.
"Everybody down!" one had shouted in a commanding voice as they hovered ten meters above the street.
When somebody drops out of the sky on a broomstick, stays miraculously in the air, points a sparking firecracker at you, and tells you to get down on the ground, disobeying is not the first thing that generally enters your mind.
Karl had dropped flat on his face (he was to have bruises and abrasions from this for a week afterwards) like everyone else on the street, squinting upwards at the amazing sight. Five more on broomsticks had appeared, these with black robes and masks, and they began shouting things and shooting sparks at each other. Karl had felt several trails of sparks hit the street right next to his body and thought vaguely that he'd never expected to be in a combat situation when he'd gone into Intelligence. Kidnapped, cyanide in his tea, maybe, or a shot from the window, but never anything like this. He'd realized that there was nothing he could do and had buried his face in the ground, arms curled protectively over his head.
When the people in robes had stopped shooting at each other and the dust had settled, Karl had carefully raised his head and looked around. Nearly all of the black-robed people had been lying on the ground, quite obviously dead or unconscious, and one or two of the others as well. The remainder of the men in navy robes had the only black-robe still on his broomstick in a headlock.
There had been complete silence for a good three minutes, at the end of which a new group had arrived on broomsticks. They had moved around on the ground, cleaning up the mess and pointing their thin sticks at people. Karl had been too stunned to say anything or to run away.
"Obliviate!" a stout man had said to him, poking him with his stick.
He had abruptly had a brief, intensely painful headache, but Karl had stayed up on his feet, staring, perplexed, at the other man.
"Obliviate!" Another short bout of pain had ensued, this one lasting for even less time than the other.
The man had sworn and shouted, "Stupefy," and everything had gone completely and utterly black.
He had been rather surprised to hear all about the magical world when he regained consciousness on what looked like an operating room table. He had been told, very calmly and very nicely, that he was in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and that he'd been caught up in a Ministry attack on some Death Eaters, but he was perfectly fine and had only been stunned. Did he need to use one of their fireplaces, or did he feel up to Apparating back?
He'd gaped at her, and slowly her smile had disappeared. With obvious annoyance, she exclaimed that she'd forgotten again...was he the Muggle that had been brought in today? Never mind, he needn't worry, they'd take care of everything.
She had left the room only to be replaced by the stout man who had knocked him out.
"Mr. Schmidt, there's a lot I need to explain. You had better lie back down."
That had been in the fall of 1976, and he had been only twenty-seven years old.
Now it was the summer of 1995, and he looked like he was about thirty.
That seemed to be one of the side effects of his extremely rare condition; or perhaps it was the fact that he'd been exposed to so much magic in the following years. The wizards and witches he had found himself talking with aged far more slowly than Muggles did, though they didn't mention this for quite some time. Instead, they introduced him to the wizarding world, knowing perfectly well that they couldn't just send him home and ask him to keep quiet about it. It appeared that they intended to keep him occupied with explanations of Quidditch and the monetary system they used until they could think of something to do with him. This plan was immediately discarded when Karl (only, of course, because he was more than a bit disoriented at the time) had mentioned that he was in British Intelligence. He'd found himself whisked away to a Mr. Bartemius Crouch, who, after hearing the fat wizard's story and demanding an explanation of Karl's career thus far, had instantly offered him a job.
It turned out that the Ministry of Magic was a little short on staff at the moment in their efforts against the Death Eaters, and he had just been recruited to work in their Intelligence department.
Karl didn't deem it wise to object.
He was almost used to the magical world by now--he didn't even flinch when stepping into the Floo system anymore, and watching delivery owls swoop by his office window was nothing out of the ordinary. He had found that, while he was the only Muggle currently employed by the Ministry, they also employed several Squibs--that is, people from magical families who were born without the talent themselves. Karl had been tested and re-tested for this magical talent, but he didn't seemed to have more than what was required to make a few sparks fly from the end of a wand, and that was fine with him. He worked just as well for the Ministry as the Squibs did, and better than some of the qualified witches or wizards. That wasn't to say, of course, that magic didn't enter into his life on a daily basis--he now used Floo powder, owl post, and enchanted appliances in his home and had virtually forsaken the Muggle world. He had no family to speak of--his parents had divorced and one lived in America and the other Germany, and neither had ever cared for him very much. His friends in the Muggle world had been practically nonexistent even before he'd been hired by the Ministry of Magic. All in all, as he'd made several good friendships with witches and wizards since then, his life had taken a definite turn for the better since that day so long ago, and he hadn't ever regretted his decision.
It was a sunny June morning in 1995 as Karl walked along Diagon Alley, drawing stares (as usual) due to his light brown suit. As Muggle suits went, it was expensive and extremely nice, but Muggle dress was not ordinarily seen on the wizarding street. Karl didn't mind--he'd tried wearing robes for a few weeks at one point and had found it just too out of the ordinary. At least the way he dressed provided something of a connection to the life he'd left behind.
He passed Gringotts bank and walked right into the small brick building next to it. At first glance, it appeared to be no more than an unused warehouse, dusty and filled with unopened packing crates. Karl, on the other hand, knew the trick to seeing what was really there--you had to tilt your head sideways just slightly and unfocus your eyes. It was rather like those Magic-Eye games he'd never quite succeeded at as a boy. Once he had accomplished this minor feat, the room swam around him for an instant and then a doorway appeared in the wall before him, with a whitewashed staircase leading upwards. He climbed the steps until he reached the first landing, and suddenly, all entrances and exits were closed off. Karl was standing in a small white cubicle, completely alone.
A voice spoke up, though there was no source visible. "Please hold out your wand." Karl dug around in his pockets a moment before finding his--eleven inches and thirteen-sixteenths, thin and supple, made of oak dyed a deep maroon and containing a single merman's hair. Naturally, the most he could do with it was shoot a few silver sparks out the end, but it was his wand nonetheless, and it gave him an identity in this world. He held it out, grasped loosely in his right hand. Immediately, several tiny pinpricks seemed to run up his fingers as he and the wand were examined.
"Approved. Please continue up the stairs to your right."
He did so, stepping up into his office. The first thing he noticed was the light blue slip of paper in his IN tray. The second was the headline on the Daily Prophet newspaper that was lying on his desk.
The voice finished its usual greeting as he picked up the slip of paper and read through it.
"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries, Mr. Schmidt."
********
The file drawer marked "Ænigma" was glowing bright blue.
Alice Wilkinson dropped the folder she had been about to put away in the drawer above that one. Completely ignoring the fact that papers were now spilled all over the floor, she leaned in to peer closely at it. Beneath the word Ænigma was today's date--June 25th, 1995.
An explanation was obvious but mind-boggling: somebody had opened the file earlier this morning. Experimentally, she tugged on the handle. It didn't budge an inch. That was hardly surprising; only three people in the Department of Mysteries had ever been authorized to open that drawer. Two were dead. The third had vowed never to do so, ever since the file had been officially closed on August 1st, 1980.
Someone had reopened the Ænigma files.
********
Bernadine Croaker's mouth was set in a firm line. She was going to get to the bottom of this if it took her all day. Bode would explain this to her! She was one of his finest Unspeakables, after all. Nobody did their job better than she did, and how could she be expected to continue with the wild rumors flying around? It was enough to try anyone's nerves.
Her nerves, tight or not, had little to no effect on her outward appearance. Even the usual rocking, swaying, and occasional shuddering of the department building did nothing to faze her; she just continued walking without missing a beat. Bernadine's shoulder-length brown hair didn't even seem to sway when the floor heaved violently beneath her feet, and the expression on her more-than-pretty face remained constant. She wore long, forest-green robes that brushed the carpet as she walked, carrying her head high and keeping her steel gray eyes straight ahead. A thick gold ring encircled the fourth finger of her left hand. Some might have taken it for a wedding or an engagement ring, but Bernadine Croaker had never entertained any notions of being anything but firmly single. That was the rule, rather than the exception, in the Department of Mysteries. None of the Unspeakables were allowed to marry, court, or form any deep friendships outside of the Department, a simple matter of secrecy. This seemed harsh to many outsiders, but none of the Unspeakables objected. They were married to their work, and it was only on very rare occasions that any two members managed to form a non-job-related relationship. It happened, but not to Bernadine Croaker. She was dedicated to the point of obsession. That was another of the criteria for belonging to the Department.
Her day had started out normally. She'd woken at five, arrived at the Ministry buildings half an hour later, and had met with the Auror's assembly in order to bully them into allowing the Department free rein on the tissue samples St. Mungo's had collected from the Pi-Virus victims. She had then spent another hour or two interviewing the said victims and performing memory charms to cover up her tracks. The disease was easily cured, but it should not have been released into the general population. More tests needed to be performed to ascertain whether the benefits of its strengthening powers were greater than the downsides--flu-like symptoms and abdominal swelling. Yes, some more tests would need to be run. At nine, she had talked Sarah Thompson out of her ridiculous notions about their Invisibility capabilities. Certainly, it was much more convenient to be able to render yourself unseen without the use of a wand, cloak, or potion, but that was no reason that anyone outside of the Department should be able to do it. Self-induced invisibility was one of their greater secrets, and she would as soon release the Pi-Virus to Death Eaters as let anyone outside of the Department--much less their incompetent Minister and the general public, bless their souls!--know about the spell.
Then she had gone to the records department to get a file on the Egyptian Floo network, only to find Alice Wilkinson on the verge of hysterics. The Ænigma files should never have been reopened. Even Bernadine had no idea what they were, and she wanted nothing but to keep it that way. Fifteen minutes later, her Daily Prophet had been delivered, along with an urgent message from the Minister of Magic himself. The Prophet said that the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament had been completed just the last night, and one of the two Hogwarts champions had been killed. The other, Harry Potter, had walked away with the thousand-galleon prize.
Fudge had said, in his letter, that it was urgent that Croaker and Bode, along with the other Unspeakables, be informed that Potter and Albus Dumbledore had come up with the insane idea that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned and murdered the other Hogwarts champion. He went into very little detail besides ordering them not to believe a word of it if approached with the story.
He should have known better. Nobody, particularly the Minister of Magic, tells the Department of Mysteries what to do.
Bernadine had immediately left her office for her Head of Department's workplace. Like all the other Unspeakables' offices, his branched off of the impossible maze of corridors that floated, completely unnoticed, hundreds of meters above the London streets, which contributed to the constant rolling and heaving of its floors as she moved confidently along. Her firm resolve was completely impenetrable--she had never before been taken in by wild rumors, never backed down from a challenge, and never displayed anything but the utmost strength of character. She was going to get to the bottom of this if she had to pick Cerberus Bode up by the scruff of the neck and shake the facts out of him.
The Department Head's office door was slightly open already, so she didn't bother to knock. Instead, Bernadine gave it a good, hard shove and walked right in.
"Cerberus," she began without preamble, fixing her eyes on the fraction of Bode's head that she could see above his reclining dragon-leather desk chair, "what's going on? I got a letter from the Minister just now about the Triwizard Tournament, and the Daily Prophet's concealing something...they didn't go into any detail about the third task. And the Ænigma files--what in Merlin's name is going on? You swore when you became Head of Department never to look at those again. There's rumors traveling around like you wouldn't believe. Somebody said Postumus Rookwood walked into the offices this morning, which is the most abject nonsense I've ever heard. Cerberus, are you list--"
She cut off suddenly as she became aware of another figure in the room with them. Turning slowly, Bernadine was shocked to find Cerberus Bode standing just behind her, white-faced and with sweat running down his usually quite attractive face. That in and of itself was surprising enough, but who on earth....
Bernadine looked back at the chair, which had gradually begun to swivel around. The man in it was not, as she'd assumed, their current Head of Department. He had deep brown, almost black hair, with two streaks of gray running from his temples, piercing dark eyes, and a polished elegance in every move. There was a manila envelope clasped in his right hand; much of the contents was stacked neatly on the desk. A single word, Ænigma, crossed its orange-brown surface. His eyes were fixed on the lamp in the ceiling, but when he had turned to face her completely, they slowly moved downwards to rest on his face. Those gracefully-carved lips curved in a tight smile.
"Bernadine; it's been quite some time since we met last, hasn't it? I'm astounded...you two have managed to keep the place up rather nicely."
She let out a choked sort of gasp and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
Confused yet? So am I. So did you like it, or should I forget it and devote all my resources to Ad Infinitum?