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.
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 recently...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. Postumus Rookwood and the Ænigma files are mine--Augustus Rookwood belongs to J. K. Rowling. 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!
Note: Yes, I'm working on Chapter 10 of Ad Infinitum, but I've contracted a minor case of writer's block as far as it's concerned. The best medicine for that dread disease is usually to work on something else for a bit, so here goes. Bug me about it if you like, that's what the review box is for.
Fifteen
Chapter Two: With Open Arms
Karl stared down at the paper, rereading it in complete and utter astonishment.
Schmidt--
Meet me at my office as soon as convenient. Bring your wand.
Rookwood
Rookwood. He'd known two men named Rookwood. One was still in Azkaban, supposing he'd survived his time there. The other was dead.
He sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. Shaking his head to clear it, Karl set the paper down and reached for the Prophet. He needed a moment before carrying out the self-assured orders on the message. Glancing over the front page, he noted with some surprise that there was nothing on the Triwizard Tournament. As he searched the headlines for something he felt he ought to know, a tiny column at the bottom of the second page caught his eye.
Muggle Found Beaten to Death in Knockturn Alley
A Muggle man of about forty-five was discovered late last night just outside of the Banshee's Grin, the most frequented pub in Knockturn Alley, London. Time of death has been estimated at approximately seven o' clock. Ministry officials have not revealed suspects in the murder or possible reasons for his presence on the magical street.
Though the Muggle has not yet been identified, an ID from the Muggle Ministry (in a nearly illegible condition) was discovered on his person. The man was five-foot eleven, with short blond hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a pair of thick spectacles with gold wire twined around the rims, a navy pinstriped suit, and carrying a briefcase with the initials "AMH" on the handle. Inside the briefcase were assorted documents of a financial nature, though none lent a clue as to his identity. The means of death are uncertain and could have been any one of his injuries, including a cracked skull and markings around the neck suggesting strangulation.
When asked if the incident would affect business, Herreus Dumme, the proprietor of the Banshee's Grin, said only, "Nah, people around here don't care much about that sort of thing. Happens all the time."
"This has been a terrible, and worst of all, avoidable, tragedy," says Edgar Greenbroch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "It wouldn't have happened, of course, had he not left Muggle London. Our Ministry needs to push for reforms in the areas of magical concealment. As stated only last month, the wards over the entrances to wizarding areas, including the Leaky Cauldron, are in a sad state of disrepair. The administration...."
Karl let the paper fall from his hand, taking several deep breaths to calm his nerves. This was too much just now. He had an appointment to keep, but first he was taking a detour. It wouldn't be a pleasant trip, but would be one he was not unused to.
"The Ministry Morgue," he said clearly to the door. It shone brightly for an instant, and he reached for the knob.
Karl emerged into a very long, tidy room with black tiling and white wallpaper. Along one wall was a window that opened into an office. He approached the witch standing there.
"Hello," he said politely. "I'd like to be taken to the Muggle that was brought in last night. I think I can identify him."
"Name, please?"
"Karl Schmidt."
She scribbled it down on a sheet of notepaper. "Hank! Take this man down to A. Doe, will you? Says he might know who he is."
A wizard wearing the white uniform of the St. Mungo's doctors waved Karl to a door, leading him into the dim corridor and down the hall. Karl's shoes echoed sharply against the black tiles, keeping time as they walked. "In here, Mr. Schmidt." Hank opened one of the many doors lining the walls and they turned into a long room, lit only by a single lamp in the middle of the ceiling. It was cold, and Karl shivered instinctively as he looked down the rows of covered stretchers.
Hank walked immediately to one of the stretchers and waited for Karl to join him. Karl nodded, and he pulled the sheet up and several feet towards the end of the stretcher. Though he'd been exposed to the sight of death many times before, Karl had to work to keep his face straight and his breath from catching.
He was a ghastly sight indeed--the whole face was disfigured and covered in dried blood and bruises. Both eyes were shut, one so swollen that Karl could barely see the lashes. Hank reached below the stretcher for a bundle of clothing, some twisted pieces of wire, and several thick shards of glass.
"That's what he was wearing."
Karl looked a question at the doctor, who nodded. He gingerly picked up one of the wire spectacle frames and looked closely at it, then set it back down on the navy suit.
"Arnold Harvey," Karl said, looking back at the unrecognizable face. "I worked with him for quite some time and haven't seen him in years. Those are his glasses, though, and he always wore a pinstriped suit like that one." He hesitated, unsure of why he was about to ask this, and then went impetuously with his gut feeling.
"I need to have a look at his briefcase and the contents of his pockets, if I may."
"Mr. Schmidt, I'm not sure--"
Karl pulled out his Ministry ID and flashed it at the doctor, whose eyes widened slightly before he bent down to replace the suit and glasses. "You'll have to come with me, they're in a different room."
The storage room was filled with filing cabinets, each so small Karl thought they wouldn't hold more than a stack of index cards. However, when Hank pulled out one of the drawers, it magically expanded itself to the size needed to hold a briefcase and various other items. Karl reached inside and pulled them carefully out, setting each on a table that was conveniently near to hand. A muddy and torn pocket handkerchief, the snapped and scratched ID, and a small handgun containing only one bullet. Karl's eyebrows rose--this was a tiny little thing that wouldn't hold more than four bullets. Few people used something that small, but then again, Arnold had never been one for convention. He assumed the man had had his reasons. A quick examination showed that at least one had been fired. Karl was by no means an expert on firearms, but it seemed likely to him that Arnold had kept all four chambers filled.
He opened the briefcase and took out the papers, glancing through them. The stack was barely an inch thick and contained nothing but insurance. Karl put them back into the briefcase and closed the lid.
"I want these sent to my office," he told Hank immediately. "As soon as you can. I'm afraid I need to go."
"Thank you, Mr. Schmidt. I'll have them sent along right away."
Karl nodded and walked back to the reception area. The door would still take him back to his office, but it would work only for him. As he hurried along the halls in the Department of Mysteries, he puzzled over the message he'd received, putting Arnold away into the back of his mind--there would be time enough to deal with that later.
But the note. What office was he supposed to go to? He decided to start with the Head's, as Postumus Rookwood had been the chief Unspeakable before his death almost fifteen years ago. Who on earth could have sent it? Certainly not Rookwood himself. Was it somebody's bad idea of a joke?
Upon arriving at the office he was looking for, Karl stopped at the door, which was open a crack, and froze. He knew the amused voice that was coming from inside the room.
"How charming," it said. "And ladylike. I would hardly have expected it of her."
"Stay away from her!" came Cerberus Bode's harsh, fearful voice. "Don't come near either of us. I want some explanations."
"All in good time, Cerberus. There is no need to look at me that way, it is only I."
"You're--"
"Dead. I find the thought incredibly amusing. Ennervate!"
A soft moan came from somewhere near the floor. "Bernadine, my dear, do get to your feet. You look uncharacteristically disheveled down there."
Bernadine Croaker said dryly, "I expect I do. Help me up, Cerberus. Rookwood, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"
"Explanations later, Bernadine. I strongly suspect that there is someone outside the door. Will you invite him in?"
Karl pushed the door open before she could reply. "What's going on?"
Rookwood gave him a pleased smile. "Ah, Schmidt. You received my message, I take it?"
"I did. And now I'd like to receive some explanations, if you don't mind."
"Actually, I do. And as your Head of Department, I would advise you not to object."
"You're not the Head of Department," Croaker said tightly.
Rookwood sank languidly into Bode's dragon leather desk chair. "But of course, I am. Cerberus was chosen because I was dead. Now, that is no longer the case, and we can pick up where I left off. Though, incidentally, you have done a wonderful job keeping things in order--except for the Ænigma files, which have been sadly neglected. I see no progress recorded since August 1st, 1980."
"I closed the files the day after you died and vowed never to open them again," Bode replied harshly, though cold sweat was running down his face. He wiped it away with one hand. "It was for everyone's good."
"An admirable, touching sentiment, but very melodramatic, Cerberus, and hardly practical. The files could have been put to a great deal of use over the last fifteen years."
"What are the Ænigma files?" Croaker demanded.
Karl broke in impatiently. "Aren't we getting a bit off subject?"
"Defer to your superiors, Schmidt!"
"My apologies, Mr. Bode. I meant no disrespect."
"He does have a point, Cerberus. Rookwood, where on earth have you been?"
"All in good time. Bernadine, Cerberus, please wait outside the office. I need a word with Schmidt."
Bode went red with indignation. "I'll admit that you've shocked us, Rookwood, but that's no reason to allow you to undermine my authority."
"You have no authority."
Bode raised his wand at Rookwood, but the other man merely waved a hand in his direction. "Out, Bode."
"Stupefy!"
A jet of red sparks shot out of the wand, but it had hardly traveled two inches when it hit an unseen force and rebounded back onto the wand. Bode dropped it, staring down at his hand in amazement.
"Out, both of you. Wait in the hall. I will call you in when I need you."
Bode and Croaker left the office without further objection.
"Sit down, Schmidt." Rookwood waved one hand at the chair opposite his desk.
"I'll stand, thank you."
"Sit down, Schmidt."
Karl sat.
"Thank you." He leaned forward, steepling his hands and resting his chin on perfectly-manicured fingertips.
"I haven't seen you for quite some time, sir."
"Indeed."
"Word had it you were dead."
"I was aware of that fact, Schmidt."
"What did you want to see me about?"
"Patience is a virtue."
"It's a virtue that isn't always entirely practical. If I remember correctly, you were very fond of practicalities, sir."
"And still am."
"About that...."
"No, I am not going to explain why I am alive. Efficiency is also a virtue--one I was also very fond of--and there is no need for you to know where I have been for fifteen years, at least not at this point."
"What do I need to know?"
Rookwood picked up a stack of parchment on the desk and began sorting through it. After a moment's search, he pulled out a Muggle photograph.
"Do you know this man?"
"Arnold Harvey," Karl said slowly. "British Intelligence. He was my superior for a few years before I threw my lot in here. He died last night, beaten to death in Knockturn Alley."
Rookwood raised his eyebrows. "How do you know that?"
"I identified him at the morgue just a few minutes ago. How did you know?"
"That is also irrelevant at this point. What is relevant is that this man was connected with the Ænigma files, and that was why he was murdered."
"What?" It came out in a whisper, but Karl was gratified that he managed to keep his face largely impassive.
"You heard me, Schmidt."
"Arnold was a Muggle. They don't even know how he got in--"
"Arnold Harvey," Rookwood replied, that odd smile crossing his face again, "was not a Muggle."
The only sound audible for several long seconds was the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall.
Karl swallowed and forced the words out. "Of course he was. He had no magical powers at all. Do you think he could have concealed them for all those years?"
"Arnold Harvey was a Muggle until about sixteen and a half years ago, Schmidt."
"You're talking nonsense."
"No, I am talking about the Ænigma Project. Harvey was one of the very few that knew about it."
Karl felt like he could really have gone for an aspirin or two right about then. Or some painkiller spells.
"The Ænigma Project dealt--deals--with power transference. Not creation--like matter and other forms of energy, there is only a finite amount of magic in the universe--but transference. One person gives up a bit, or all, of their power to someone else."
"I had no idea any such process existed."
"Very few people do. This is the Department of Mysteries, remember. And this process is a dangerous weapon--the consequences of it falling into the wrong hands will be inconceivable."
"Will?"
"It is only a matter of time now, unless we can stop it."
"Who's trying, then?"
"The Death Eaters."
Karl shook his head. "There's no way they could have the organization left over after all these years--"
"They have a leader."
"Who? That Malfoy character? Somehow, I can't see him pulling anything as complicated and fine-tuned as all this."
"He is not. The Dark Lord has returned."
This was really just a bit too much. Karl rose to his feet, staring across the desk at Rookwood's impassive face.
"Did you read the article in the Daily Prophet about the third task of the Triwizard Tournament?"
"I didn't see it, sir," Karl managed.
"Harry Potter won. Cedric Diggory, the other Hogwarts champion, was murdered by one of his followers, soon before he was returned to a body. The Prophet said nothing about it, naturally. Fudge refused to believe it. But we know that it is true. Do not for a moment entertain a thought of asking how."
"But what does it have to do with me? And how can we possibly--"
"Sit back down, Schmidt. I will explain in due time.
"Now, would you please hand me your wand?"
Karl did so, slowly removing it from his pocket and laying it down on the desk. Rookwood picked it up and, not even using it to cast a spell (as far as Karl could tell), he muttered in the softest of voices, "Prior Incantato."
A heavy cloud of gray smoke erupted from the end of the wand. Its soundless scream seemed to vibrate off the walls--Karl threw himself backward in his chair and Rookwood dropped the wand--and the cloud exploded silently, reaching the far corners of the room and then disappating, though it left a burning black mark on the glossy desktop.
The only remnant of the smoke was a small, lightning-shaped streak that hung in the air, and then that too disappeared.
Sigh. Seventeen reviews. Wow. Here's a quick response to each of you:
My first reviewer--sorry, I didn't have time to save yours before I got up over the 15 reviews limit. My apologies, and thank you.
Sean A Green--An unspeakable is someone who works for the Department of Mysteries. See Chapter Seven of Goblet of Fire--Mr. Weasley talks about them to Harry. Top of page 86, American edition.
"That's Bode and Croaker...they're Unspeakables...."
"They're what?"
"From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to...."
Katie--Glad you're enjoying it so far; don't worry, there'll be much more to come.
Martin Miggs (The Mad Muggle, I presume?)--You think it's intriguing? Good, it should get more so. Thanks!
Laura--Thanks for the review, and I hope you're enjoying it!
Tahyla--I've thought about Muggles a lot too. We know, for instance, that the Muggle Prime Minister knows about the magical community, so there must be more out there.
Emu--I like Karl too. He was originally intended to be a minor character, but as I developed the plot in my mind and got to know him, I decided he'd be one of the central protagonists.
Ellie Granger--More coming!
Episcopal Witch--Hopefully, I'm not confused enough that I have no clue where I'm going. Several late-night brainstorming sessions have helped. If you like my stories about the bureaucracy, you'll enjoy "Bartemius Crouch Presiding" (see summary on my author's biography), soon to be posted (I hope!). Thanks, as always, for your review! (And post something soon)
Solitary Starlight--Not Voldemort, actually, but good guess. You can't really tell, as it's a new character. You'll find out more in this chapter. Thanks for the compliments!
...--Writing more as I speak! (type, whatever)
Unshed Tears--The movie was U-571, and I thought I'd hate it. Instead, I'm in love with it, which is funny, because that's not usually the sort of thing I'd like. Karl was originally based (very loosely, mind you) on Mr. Hirsch, for those of you who've seen it.
Sakuya-chan--Glad you like it.
LadyVoldemort--It was, rather, wasn't it?
Mage Legacy--Here's the next part, since you asked; I hope you enjoy it!
Gieschbrecht--Are you from the Netherlands, then, or do you just speak a bit (or a lot, either one) of the language? Just wondering--I'm glad you're interested. And I love THAT Poe, by the way. Have you read his poem "The Conqueror Worm"? It's my favorite....I have to confess, I didn't find the Fellowship of the Rings quite as wonderful as other fantasy books, but the Hobbit was superb. I'm going to finish up on the rest of the Lord of the Rings, thanks for reminding me. My to-read list is growing too quickly to remember everything.
Amadeus--I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far.
BTW, did anyone notice anything important about the date of Postumus Rookwood's presumed demise?