Midweek update to help kill some time during that lockdown.
J
Grumweldius Arctavius Plank stroked his moustache one time. He'd just recently grown it in order to match his new pinstriped bowler hat and robe-suit he had been given for work at the Ministry. Upon seeing him, all decked out and fully moustachioed, his wife had commented that he looked "very no-nonsense". Plank had told her to leave the dirty talk for the bedroom, but the results were pleasing, nonetheless.
He stroked it one more time, and checked his pocket watch. He was waiting, of course – and rather patiently, moustache-stroking aside – for precisely three p.m. And although it was only two-fifty-nine, he could hear the clamour of voices through the door he waited next to. He could hear the scoundrels preparing to start the meeting, despite the inter-departmental memo precisely stating that it should start at three p.m. sharp.
A faint bee-bee-beep suddenly sounded from Plank's pocket. He tapped it once with his wand, smiled, stroked his moustache once more for luck, and pushed open the door to the smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing on the Second Mezzanine Level of the Sub-Department for Emergency Meetings and Official Get-Togethers.
And there was much official getting-together being done behind those doors. A little too much, if Plank was quite honest. The amphitheatre-like seating was pack to bursting, all five levels. He internally questioned whether the use of the second-smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing et cetera, might not have been the better choice.
He squeezed on to the edge of the lowermost row, avoiding the worst of the sparks that flew, the stray bowler had thrown like a frisbee across the room, the cursing, the shoving, and the small witch who was tossed bodily off the highest row to land somewhere down the line from where Plank sat.
All in all, a rather ordinary Ministry meeting, so far.
'Oh, it's you.'
The dull, nasally voice coming from next to where Plank had sat belonged to a short man with long, unkempt hair and large hands. He was oddly familiar.
'Baggins, wasn't it?' Plank ventured.
'Boggins, sir. Name's still Boggins.'
'Course it is. Why would you change it?'
'Haven't a clue, sir.'
'Good. Don't change it. I've a hard enough time recalling you as it is.'
'Very good, sir.'
Plank was forced to shuffle along even further as a skittish-looking witch with flyaway blonde hair, flighty eyes and a very long shawl shuffled in. She seemed oddly familiar.
'You're late,' Plank observed. It was now three-oh-four.
'No, I'm Verily,' she replied, matter-of-factly. 'Esoterics Engineer– ahem, ex-Esoterics Engineer.'
'I'm Plank,' replied Plank. 'I build things.'
On his other side, Boggins scoffed.
'Hmm. Good name for building things,' Verily observed.
'Well, I suppose it is.'
Plank had never thought of that before. Really, it was quite amusing. He gave a small chuckle, which stirred the bristles on his moustache in a satisfying manner.
'What's this all about, then?' the witch Verily asked.
Oh, great, Plank thought. A chatty one.
'I haven't a clue. I just build things. And follow rules.'
'Good way to get you killed, that is. Following rules, I mean. You know, I swore I'd never come back here. Not after they sealed my poor Mittens away down in the bottom of the Department of Mysteries–'
Here, Plank gave a sudden hiccup – so that was where he recalled her from. He was suddenly very glad he'd grown the moustache.
'– but I was told there was to be a big announcement. And they asked for me personally. And they sent a most fetching bouquet of hydrangeas.'
Plank just nodded along, suddenly very interested in the thread of his trousers. He pulled his bowler hat down a little lower, just to be sure.
'I've been thinking about what they've got locked away down in the Department of Mysteries, you know. And I think they've gone and–'
But Plank didn't hear what Verily thought they'd gone and done, as the door to the smallest meeting room in the Western Sub-Wing on the Second Mezzanine Level of the Sub-Department for Emergency Meetings and Official Get-Togethers flew open so hard it crashed against the wall.
Three-oh-nine, Plank thought with an internal eye-roll. But better late than never.
But it was not the meeting's adjudicators that entered, it was a wild-eyed wizard in a lime-green robe that was trailing streamers of purple and black flame. His skin was a sickly black and orange, and glowing as if from some internal light. His piercing wail cut through even the commotion of the meeting room, and drew a silence down upon all of those gathered.
'It's coming!' he cried, tearing at his face, leaving bloody tracks down his cheeks from where his nails dug into flesh. He suddenly collapsed onto the floor in the centre of the room and began to writhe as if in agony. 'The End is coming! It's picking us apart, thread by thread. Unravelling. Unmaking. Consuming everything before it! Flee! There is no longer safety, only fear. There is no longer peace, only war. There is no longer magic, only– eerck!'
A trio of Steelhearts burst through the door behind the deranged wizard, and lifted him bodily from the ground. He screamed and yelled and hammered them with his fists, but they weathered the beating as if he were nothing. His screams continued, growing in pitch, as they dragged him from the room. Then, once he was out the door there was a flash of blue light, and then sudden, deafening silence
Beside him, Verily had clapped a hand to her mouth.
'That was a Floo Fixator,' she whispered, as if Plank needed informing. 'They maintain the Floo networks, keep them running reliably.'
'Indeed,' nodded Plank drily. 'And that's the third such occurrence this week. One begins to wonder what's gotten into them all. Something in the tea, perhaps.'
But Verily was already pushing herself up and glancing towards the door. 'No, Plank. Use your imagination. It's not something in the tea. It's something in the Floo. Something's gotten in there. Something that's turning Wizards to mush. I bet- I bet it was the same something that nearly stole my Socks from me!"
Plank didn't like to be told to use his imagination. He thought it was frivolous and childish. 'I'm not sure how your socks feature in all this, Miss Verily–'
'Not my socks. My Socks! My darling Kneazle. Something in the Floo tried to steal him from me! It's the same something that got that wizard, I bet. Oh, this is bad. This is worse even than I thought. If it's in the Floo then… then he was right. Nowhere is safe. Do you know where the Floo leads, Plank? Do you know what it is?'
'Well, it leads to fireplaces, one would assume.'
'Argh, think, man. Why am I even telling you this! The Floo isn't some magical tunnel, or portal that sucks you in at one end, and spits you out at the other. It's travel by magic, Plank. By Magic. By the Flux itself. It pinches two points of our world together, like you could pinch up a tablecloth, and joins them together for a heartbeat. And in that heartbeat, it disassembles and reassembles the traveller entirely – such is the glorious power of the Flux – to spit us out, good as new, at the other end. But if something is in there. If there's something disrupting that process, then… think. Use your imagination. Think on what it means for magic – for all of us!'
Plank exhaled heavily, stirring his moustache. He was beginning to enjoy this added side-effect.
'Sounds a little dramatic, to me,' he finally announced.
'Whatever,' Verily huffed, waving a dismissive hand. 'Stay if you want. I'm packing up my hydrangeas and getting out of here!'
But the witch Verily got precisely nowhere, because at that very moment – three-thirteen, to be precise – the door slammed open again, and the instigators of the meeting finally entered.
'Calm yourselves, please,' said the man, in a voice no louder than a murmur. There was instant silence throughout the room.
The man was tall and well-built. He was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and had a sharp jawline dusted with dark stubble showing only the barest flecks of grey. He paused in the middle of the room, with his hands clasped at his waist, surveying the occupants with a sweeping blue-eyed gaze that left cowed silence wherever it landed.
Behind him, barely brushing the floor and whispering softly along the dark tiles, was a tattered black cape, woven with dozens of raven feathers.
Plank shuddered when the gaze finally turned to him. It was cold and bottomless and entirely unfeeling.
But if the figure in the raven cloak unmanned him, it was his mystery accomplice that chilled Plank to the core.
He could tell that she was feminine only by the shape of her figure, as she was entirely covered from head to toe. Black boots to her knees melded into soft black leggings. A black undershirt was covered by a black jacket reaching all the way down to her black-gloved hands. A black cowl bunched around her neck and a black hood hid any hair she may or may not have had. Plank could even make out a veil hanging down across her face from the depths of the shadows of that hood. The glint of her eyes was the only thing he could make out above it. And though there was a fair distance between she and he, Plank felt as if she were standing directly before him. He could see those eyes – one electric blue, and one moss-green, piercing him, his soul, his being. Surging through him like a tidal wave, leaving only damage and destruction in their wake. He felt emptied and shaken when she finally looked away. Beside him, Verily appeared as if she was about to faint.
'Thank you for your collective patience, we apologize about the delay.' The man spoke with a deep, resounding voice. He was known to Plank. He was known to all of them Adjutant Raven, they called him. When the Minister had abandoned the Ministry and taken his core of chosen staffers with him, Raven – rumoured to be a long time friend-cum-rival – had been left behind. It was further whispered, that Raven had taken that oversight to heart. And had vowed to make the Minister pay.
At least the man has manners, Plank thought. He could respect that. The whole room would respect that, he knew. They were, after all, loyal to Adjutant Raven, now. The Minister, in his flight, had drawn a line in the sand that Raven had burned and frozen into glass. It was no secret that Raven had his eye on the top job. On de-throning the Minister for Magic, and settling the rivalry. And his embracing of the Dregs, as they'd mockingly called themselves – those Ministry workers and officials not deemed of sufficient priority to follow the Minister into hiding – had earned him their collective loyalty, and sparked life into the heart of what nobody dared call their miniature rebellion.
Without any movement or sound, the doors to the meeting room slammed shut. Verily whimpered, and chewed nervously on her lower lip. 'Bad, bad feeling…' she was muttering.
Sharply, Adjutant Raven gestured, and something flew from his outstretched hand. Something that hadn't been there a second ago. A newspaper. A copy of the Prophet, if Plank's eyes did not deceive him. There was a round of angry mutters and grumbles from the onlookers. They all knew what the Prophet signified. Him. The Minister, and his propaganda machine.
'Today, it has been made official,' announced Raven, surveying the room once more. 'The Minister has decreed that those of us who remain in the abandoned Ministry of Magic are disobeying an official Ministry mandate, trespassing on Ministry property, and are encouraging dissent and treason. We are, as of this morning, officially declared outlaws.'
There was a half-hearted whoop from a few members of the crowd at that, but the bravado was short-lived.
'The Minister has finally – as he has long been threatening to do – cut all of our salaries.'
This time, the anger came in more than just grumbles. There were shouts and raised fists. Someone drew a wand and fired off a salvo of red sparks. Raven raised a hand for silence, but the crowd heeded him not at all. The clamouring grew, until the woman in black stepped forward, placing herself in front of Raven.
It was like a blanket thrown over the wave of sound. It instantly stifled, from the centre out to the edges. The fearsome gaze – half green, half blue – that flashed from beneath the hood silenced all. A few of those in the front row were cowering backwards in their seats, and almost all were casting nervous glances, not at Raven, but at this mysterious woman. Not a single soul in the room was brave enough – or, mused Plank, perhaps stupid enough – to draw their own wand.
'As I was about to say,' Raven continued. 'We have alternative arrangements in place, worry not. The Minister wishes our voices silenced. For he fears what we have to say. He fears the competition we represent. Those of us still loyal to Magical Britain. Those of us who remain here, who continue to work for our great nation. Who have not abandoned her in this time of need to flee to our mansions and stately homes.
'We are, and forever will be, the voice of Magical Britain. And the coming elections will prove that to everybody, once and for all. Outlawry to us means nothing. For the Minister forgets, that his bureaucracy, his red tape, his decrees, mean nothing without the iron fist that holds the quill. And that iron fist is ours. The Steelhearts remain here, with us. Loyal.'
Another cheer. This one much louder. Raven and the mysterious woman let it continue. Grumweldius Arctavius Plank merely surveyed the other occupants of the room. Truth was, he was fairly apathetic about just who bore the title of Minister for Magic. But he could hardly now tell folk that the only reason he'd remained was because he'd been out buying groceries and missed the announcement. So, here he was. Caught up in some kind of rebellion, it seemed. Rather more of a to-do than he was usually used to, but if there was one thing that Plank liked about this man Raven, it was that he followed rules. And Plank loved rules. So he stayed. And besides, he liked the way they brewed their tea now.
'Our plan is a simple one,' Raven continued, once the cheering had died down. 'We will–'
Bang.
The door to the room flew open. All eyes flickered towards it. But nobody appeared. A low rumble vibrated through the floor. To Plank's left, Boggins leaned forward, placing a hand on the ground. He was suddenly looking very worried.
'Our plan–' Raven continued. But he got no further. A figure barrelled through the door, stumbled into the room a mere handful of steps, and collapsed, into what – alarmingly quickly – became a large puddle of blood.
'What the–' breathed Raven. But he was cut off again.
The figure stirred, and in the movement Plank caught the red-and-silver emblazoned Steelheart emblem on the breast of his black robe. He raised a hand towards Raven, and in a gurgling, rasping voice, he whispered, 'It's coming.'
And then he died, right there on the floor.
The panic that gripped the room surpassed any of the previous commotions tenfold and more. Witches and wizards screamed, clambered over one another, pushed, shoved, and generally behaved like a wild horde of frenzied beasts. Sheltered, somewhat, by being poked right in the farthest corner, Plank was able to look on and wonder just what it was that they were all panicking about, and if anybody at all actually knew.
Then, beside him, Boggins gave a whimper. His hand was still on the ground. Plank could feel it now, too, through his loafers. A rumbling vibration. Like a galloping horse. No, a thousand galloping horses. And it was growing stronger. Louder. Until Plank could hear it even over the calamity in the room. The first few wizards and witches who had made it to the door suddenly cried in dismay. They tried to turn back, but the pressure from the rest of the room was too great, they were forced onwards towards the door, frantically scrabbling and screaming all the way.
Raven had drawn a long, dark wand, and a fell wind was whirling around the feet of the mysterious witch, keeping even the most deranged of the herd back from her position, but both looked hesitant, confused. They clearly didn't know what they were about to face.
But they were acquainted with it presently, when the door and a large part of the wall exploded. Bodies flew along with brick and mortar. Many didn't get up. The milling panickers couldn't backpedal fast enough to get clear of the beast that strode forth from the cloud of dust, and quite frankly, Plank couldn't blame them for their terror. It turned out it had been wholly justified form the onset.
The monster might have been feline, once. Though now it looked more like something imagined up by somebody who had lived an entire life of nightmares. It was twice as tall as Plank at the shoulder. Its skin was mottled, black and blacker. And a dark, pulsating glow seemed to shine forth from within its chest. Scant bristles of what must have once been hair dotted it's back and forelegs, paler now around the feet. Its eyes did not exist – at least as far as Plank could make out. They were only bottomless chasms, from which that lambent, inner glow shone forth – a purplish-black not-light that sucked life from the world around it. It opened its mouth and gave a high-pitched, appalling snarl so dismaying that Plank actually cried out himself.
A few of the brave – or foolish – among their number cast spells upon it. But instead of hitting, or fizzling with a flash, they seemed to be absorbed by that strange, mottled skin. Which almost took on a fluid character beneath the spellfire. As if they were shooting fireworks into an ocean. And the spells did about as much good.
With an almost lazy strike, the creature swatted aside one of the brave ones. Blood fountained, his wand clattered, and the screams from the room redoubled.
A few more brave souls fired off another salvo – this time from a distance – but had equally as little effect.
'They're making it bigger,' Boggins groaned from Plank's left. The poor fellow had gone a ghastly shade of green.
'Sound observation, Boggins,' Plank croaked. He had been right. The spellfire had only served to grow the beast. It truly did seem to be absorbing the barrage.
'Stop it!' Raven growled, facing the woman in black. 'Can't you control this stuff?'
The woman barked a laugh like shattering glass. 'I can use it, Raven. But control it? Not a chance. Nobody can. That's the point.'
Even through the furore, Plank winced. That rasping voice was like nails driven into his ears.
'Well do something!' he roared, firing off a barrage of spells from his own wand.
A sudden commotion to Plank's right, and the witch Verily burst forth from their seat, running to the centre of the room. Towards the danger.
'Wait!' she was screaming. 'No, don't fire! Stop it! That's my Kneazle! It's Mittens! He was locked away beneath the building! Oh, Mitten's you've finally broken free! I knew you'd find me! What have the mean men done to you? Come to Mummy!'
Plank had time to share no more than a bemused glance with the even-greener Master Boggins before "Mittens" turned, tilted his head, and then devoured Verily down to about waist-height.
Boggins gave out and finally vomited. Plank watched the trunk-less legs take one final, almost comical step, and then collapse, twitching feebly on the ground. Of the rest of her torso and arms, there was no sign.
It was then that Plank noticed the strangest of things. A sort of silvery-golden glow was forming above what remained of the witch Verily. It bubbled up into a little cloud and began to crystallise into a small ribbon of beautiful golden light. A ribbon which became a small stream, flowing upwards, latching on to "Mittens" above his right foreleg. It seemed to be flowing from what was left of Verily and into Mittens. Now that Plank had noticed it, he saw that there were dozens of such streamers, emanating from other deceased witches and wizards throughout the room. And wherever Mittens walked, he trailed tiny puffs of golden smoke.
'He's taking something from them,' Plank mused aloud. He was feeling rather an odd sensation within him… Was this what it felt like to be curious?
'Oh, fuck that,' Groaned Boggins, wiping his mouth. 'He's going to eat us all!'
Plank was of a mind to agree, as Mittens hadn't much moved, and though his sudden appearance had spontaneously widened the only exit from the meeting room, he was still well and truly parked before it, surveying the room's frightened inhabitants.
With a dismissive wave of her left arm, the mysterious witch in black shoved a dozen onlookers to the floor unceremoniously, clearing a path between herself and the nightmare beast. It instantly turned to face her, crouching down on its haunches, preparing to leap. The witch lifted her head, the fell breeze around her stirred, and she thrust her arms out forwards. From them, snaked blue-black chains, almost identical in colour to Mittens.
They latched hungrily on to his front shoulders, coiling gleefully around his forelegs and midriff, tightening inch by inch. The witch held her pose, arms outstretched, muscles clearly tensed. The light from within Mittens pulsated brighter, more frantically with each incremental tightening of the chains. The witch jerked her arms backwards, pulling tight. Mittens gave off that horrible cry, and Plank threw his hands over his ears.
Mittens bucked and shook his broad head, gnashing his teeth. Light flared in the pits of his eyes. A snarl came from the witch. She turned her head towards a bystander, who suddenly cried out and fell, motionless, to the floor. The golden ribbon of light began to coalesce above her now-lifeless body, flowing upwards, not into Mittens, but into the chains that the witch was wielding.
'By Merlin's sacred texts, she's the same,' whispered Plank. Of all the revelations that day, this may well have been the most terrifying.
It seemed Mittens noted this fact at around the same time Plank did from the distant corner of the amphitheatre seating. He raised his head, pulsed with that strange not-light one final time, and disappeared, causing the chains to fall to the floor in eerie silence.
A silence which was broken by the witch yelling in alarm. Plank noted it, too. A dull, purple-black light was racing up the chains. The exact light that had pulsated from Mittens' core. It was speeding towards the witch. She took a panicked step backwards, shook her hands, ridding herself of the chains, which began to slowly dissolve…
Not fast enough. Mittens' form roared back into existence. Right on top of the witch. He gave a triumphant yowl, and a swipe of his claws. Blood fanned. The witch spun away, clutching her chest. A rich, deep red spilled through the midnight of her robes.
Amongst the stranded witches and wizards once more, Mittens gleefully set about tearing and rending and devouring, all the while growing larger as the strands of gold and silver latched on to him, all over his body. Plank, seeing a gap to the exit, grabbed Boggins by the collar and started hauling. All Boggins was in a state to do was moan and curse, stumbling along and decrying the end of the world as they knew it.
Looking back at the threshold, Plank saw Raven, now alone, standing strong against the beast. He tore up a section of the floor to block a blow. The tiles shattered into a rain of dust, and Raven was driven backwards, cursing. A section of the roof brought down upon its head slowed Mittens for a moment, and Raven used the distraction to roll to his right, ushering more stunned onlookers towards the door, and crouching over the Witch in Black, lifting her still body in his arms.
He bent down to converse with her. She managed to raise one feeble arm as Mittens broke free from the masonry and turned to face them down. More onlookers buffeted Plank and Boggins in their desperation to flee. The room was now almost entirely empty, but Plank was transfixed by the magic and majesty of these two figures, broken and defeated though they were, staring down what appeared to be certain death.
But any resolution to the conflict was lost to Plank, who was knocked clean off of his feet by a rather rotund wizard toddling hurriedly away from the fight. Plank fell on his side. His head hit the ground hard and stars burst behind his eyelids. There was a colossal explosion, and suddenly dust shrouded everything. He felt a hand gripping his collar, dragging him onwards, upwards. Boggins had come to his senses. Plank got up, stumbled, looked backwards one last time, but could make nothing out.
As he followed Boggins down the corridor, another of Mittens' yowls sounded, ear-splitting and terrifying. Plank couldn't tell if it was in triumph or in agony. Another explosion rocked the building.
They reached a designated Apparition point. All around them, Witches and Wizards were popping out of existence. The scrum for the few Floo fireplaces available on this level was fierce. Plank looked on as the green flames roared. A sudden heat buffeted him, cries of pain, and a lick of purple-black flame. The demented Floo Fixator flashed through Plank's mind, and he hurriedly let go of Boggins with a frantic 'Thanks!' and apparated right out of there.
Sudden, sharp pain, as Plank stumbled on to his doorstep at home. Blood was leaking out of his left loafer. He looked down quizzically, wriggling his toes, or what was left of them.
'Huh,' he said aloud and to nobody in particular. 'Well, who needs a pinkie toe anyway.'
Miles away, in the heart of London, the Ministry of Magic was falling.
