Chapter 7

July 23, 1989

It's simple; he's here because of money or more aptly the lack of it.

Farkas Tibor, a young Hungarian graduate of the Durmstrang Institute, was an incredibly gifted student with unlimited potential and could have likely risen to a high profile career in politics, but for one complication. His father and only living relative is a degenerate gambler with one too many debts. The less than above board lender evaluated their chances of recuperation and resettled all debts upon the son instead. Any ideas of seeking help from the Aurors abruptly ended upon receiving his father's ear by owl post.

Thirteen months, three weeks, and two days all spent in a hellish existence. Every second is entirely devoted to finding quick, high payout gigs. As expected, the payout is proportional to risk. His once unblemished skin is now littered with a mishmash of cuts, bruises, and scars. Luckily the end is in sight; no more internal debates on choosing lodgings or food versus professional healing services. And hopefully the nights spent lying awake wracked by overwhelming guilt will end.

But then again, lies are poisonous whether told to others or oneself.

On the surface, the task ahead should be unobjectionable. Simply locate a missing child.

However, one does not deliberately seek aid from an infamous criminal enterprise and then take meticulous care to hide it unless their next action is decidedly not innocuous. Therefore, the squeaky clean front that Albus Dumbledore portrays within the British political scene and the International Confederation of Wizards is also a lie.

On an already long list, a chilling question haunts him. What lies in store for the boy once he is in Dumbledore's clutches? Despite any personal qualms, he is powerless and unable to change the outcome especially since he's unable to share any details of this gig. Before learning his employer's identity or the task, he was lured to the meeting place with an eye popping payout contingent upon a non-disclosure agreement. Not ideal, but acceptable. Even when faced with the ultimatum of performing an unbreakable vow, he barely hesitated - the money was simply too good to pass up.

A mere scant seconds later, instant regret hits. The stakes are too high as he must either locate the Boy-Who-Lived within three months or forfeit the payout. Unlike previous tasks, this one hits closer to home than any other. He stands today free of the dark mark because of the missing subject. In the late 1970s, many families chose to homeschool their children in hopes of removing them from the Dark Lord's notice and his aggressive recruiting tactics. Before Tibor's mother succumbed to illness, she vehemently fought her husband and enrolled her son into Durmstrang in order to give him the best opportunities in life, but also equip him with the tools to properly defend himself from the Dark Lord as well as others wishing to control him. Miraculously, the missing subject stopped the Dark Lord's reign of terror in October 1981 just two months into Tibor's first year. To a small extent, he feels obligated to lend a hand in aid, but a larger part fears any interference with client business will be noted by the lenders and inevitably jeopardize his father's life.

So there will be no heroically, idiotic feats on this task.

With one realization comes another thus highlighting a series of unsettling observations which don't paint a pretty picture. A big irresistible carrot, smarmy rehearsed spiel, and an airtight vow all point to his interview being one in a long line. This also means that each of his predecessors failed so any conventional means of locating the missing subject are also out and he'll need to think outside of the box.

It turns out his exploration of the hidden labyrinths beneath Durmstrang were incredibly helpful; in a dusty long forgotten book, he discovered an archaic blood scrying ritual and until now was too reluctant to delve any further. As evident by the name, all blood magic requires blood and rarely is it needed voluntarily. On the contrary, some rituals are far more potent when the blood is forcefully taken which easily identifies its categorization as the darker variety. Based on Dumbledore's quick microexpressions of shock and intrigue, no one else had requested a sample of blood from the missing subject. Initially armed with a vial containing exactly seven drops of blood, it now contains only two drops.

Instead of arbitrarily searching every city across England, he will visit seven carefully chosen locations. Six of those will create a distinct shape of two overlapping triangles where the bases lie almost parallel to one another. Upon stopping at each spot, he will use one drop of blood and perform a series of intricate steps all in preparation for the last location which will be the center of both triangles.

Discarding thoughts of how he came to be here in the lounge at Cregneash's only bed and breakfast, Tibor refocuses on a map displaying the United Kingdom where several cities including Kielder, Canterbury, Penzance, Niton, and Berwick-upon-Tweed have already been struck out. Smoothly pulling out an ink filled quill to strike through Cregneash, he then circles Wellington as the last and final destination.

A silent sigh mixed with exhaustion and frustration escapes as he peers at the metallic carafe full of English brewed coffee across the room. Just a few more weeks and there will be no need to choke down this horse piss. He can't wait to taste and smell the familiar Hungarian bécsi kávé.

The next afternoon in Diagon Alley...

Oswaldo Cain, a mature gentleman in his early sixties with auburn hair and a surprisingly trim physique, slowly ambles from one window front to the next. Briefly pausing to rearrange a cufflink, he presents an intimidating figure in his blue-gray tailored three piece suit paired with a midnight black robe. Quite a few passersby allow their eyes to trail over him while they subconsciously veer away from his path.

Of late, each work day within the Department of Mysteries all too often imitates his dull, monotonous evenings and weekends. For an overactive mind usually quieted by unraveling tricky puzzles, this situation is becoming harder to endure. While not entirely effective, he resorts to prowling popular, high traffic wizarding locales to hopefully stumble upon something out of the ordinary.

Three quarters of an hour pass by while traversing nearly every stretch of Diagon Alley with the exception to a few offshoots. Typically they are low traffic areas filled with struggling businesses and have a high turnover rate in terms of ownership. To his consternation, there is a large crowd filled with both men and women in muggle attire standing before a forest green establishment.

His assessments are usually spot on so why not today?

A smirk of satisfaction flashes across his face in finally finding an anomaly.

Feeling reinvigorated, he presses through the crowd and reads the name above the door as 'The Consortium' in gold plated letters. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but he can't recall any specific details. Distracted in thought, Oswaldo doesn't immediately realize that all conversation abruptly ended once he imperiously navigated to the entryway. However the uncomfortable sensation of having dozens of eyes acutely watching his every move shocks him into awareness.

While not blatantly hostile, there are no friendly gazes and more unsettling is the fact that no one moves or utters a word. Seconds or minutes later, the awkward moment ends once a young attractive gentleman opens the door to announce that the next session will start momentarily. Those from the last session now disperse and the remaining group advance inside in an orderly fashion.

Still reeling from the last minute or so, he waits until all have entered and then passes over the threshold. In shocked disbelief, he instantly backtracks to confirm his suspicion. Outside the establishment is only about 4.5 meters wide yet inside the room is 9 meters by 9 meters. It was obviously charmed to expand since the shops at Diagon Alley are notoriously cramped and small. Few proprietors have the means to hire a Charms Masters because their services are so cost prohibitive. Due to safety concerns over stability, it is highly regulated by the Ministry when performed on dwellings or commercial spaces. Though unadvised, people still charm objects at their own risk. Quite a few people walk around with a missing upper extremity or have lost their fortunes trying to circumvent the goblins.

Shaking away these thoughts, Oswaldo re-enters and takes in the room. Richly decorated with black and white marble tile in a chevron pattern offset by a blue and copper vermeil wallpaper. Six round glass tables with enough room to seat five people are placed directly beneath a chandelier styled as glass bubbles suspended in air. Definitely not the design found in a respectable pureblood home, but nevertheless the room is very eye catching and richly furnished.

With another swift scan to ensure no detail is overlooked, he begins mentally processing his observations and comes to some interesting conclusions. The expansion charm coupled with the decor both point towards a considerable investment. However, there is no cash register or shelf full of goods so this place is most likely a private club. Based on the lack of jewelry with precious stones and ill-fitting mass produced attire, there is a definite disparity in wealth between the proprietor and clientele.

At this point, he is beyond curious to discover what lies past the live edge white oak bar and through the copper painted door.

Deciding to shift from passive observations to direct interactions, he dawns his people pleasing demeanor which usually sets others at ease and approaches a nearby table. Just like moments earlier, all cease talking and silently stare at him except this time he can see the instant they become aware of his presence. Bizarrely only one person has direct eye contact with him, but within a matter of seconds the entire table copies them and acts in concert to devote all focus on him.

Slightly disturbed, but far from discouraged he cuts his losses and intends to try his luck with another table. Gauging the room for more amiable targets proves utterly useless as his most recent interaction was viewed by everyone.

The odds appear to be stacked heavily against him today. Years of honing his craft as an Unspeakable taught him the importance of gathering intel from multiple sources and sifting through either nonsense or biases in order to arrive at the unvarnished truth.

One more attempt, then he will leave to regroup. Turning towards the bar, the attractive young man from earlier and an older woman stand behind it in a loose fitted, cream tan linen ensemble with a multicolored triquetra above their hearts.

Even from across the room, it's obvious that they're discussing him. A brief argument ensues until the younger man storms away through the copper painted door. She moves to the side away from the line of people waiting for assistance and gestures him forward.

Confidently striding forward with all the aplomb of a cultured gentleman, he ignores the large pink elephant - everyone is still watching him though now they're quietly murmuring and most certainly about him. While simultaneously nodding his head forward and clasping his hands together so they remain within her sight, he momentarily pauses to see her response. Sighing internally as she shifts her head towards the right; it is a clear indicator of an intent to maintain civility, but nothing more.

"Madame, my name is Oswaldo Cain. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"Mr. Cain, I am Josefa Marin and you may address me as Mrs. Marin."

"Well, it is a delight to make your acquaintance Mrs. Marin."

The bland smile on her face doesn't match the sharp glint in her eyes as she responds with, "Likewise, Mr. Cain."

She is maddening as hell. Affecting a joking manner he says, "As an amateur explorer of all curious things, I stumbled upon the Consortium and easily noticed quite the fanfare of those waiting to enter. Imagine my surprise when stepping inside to such a spacious setup. I work for the Ministry of Magic and am quite connected with all the Charms Masters in approved rotation. It's quite curious that not one mentioned the Consortium."

"Well, there you have it. We did not enlist the services of a Charms Master."

"If you didn't use a Charms Master, then...the only alternative is a Runes Master. But that's completely ludicrous as there are no Runes Masters located in the British Isles. Haven't been for the last forty years since the war against Grindelwald. Even those abroad are quite rare and keep a healthy distance considering the turmoil seven and a half years ago with the last Dark Lord. So care to try again?"

"You seem quite set in your beliefs; I learned long ago to pick and choose my battles carefully. I know a lost cause when I see one. Anything else, Mr. Cain?"

"Hmm, would you satisfy my curiosity by sharing the nature of this establishment and perchance its origins?"

"You would be better served by contacting the Daily Prophet and requesting a copy of the article noting our grand opening. It was quite detailed so you should have no problem with finding answers to your questions and more."

Gesturing towards the line of people waiting, she continues, "As you can see, the line isn't shrinking though their patience certainly may well be. I bid you a good day and happy exploring, Mr. Cain."

Being summarily dismissed leaves him with a foul taste in his mouth. Unfortunately, there is no alternative other than appearing uncouth so he shores up his dignity and exits the Consortium. Once outside, his congenial smile fades away. In one afternoon, Josefa Marin made an enemy.

Winning the internal battle, he remembers that anger is an unnecessary distraction and momentarily sets aside his bruised ego. He never leaves a puzzle unfinished and has no intention to start now.

Well nothing for it, but to visit an old acquaintance named Barnabas.