A/N - On behalf of Midenianscholar and myself, I'm quite pleased to present a joint endeavor of an adventure story that we've been working on this last half of the semester. Mark belongs to Midenianscholar (who will be writing from his PoV), and to find more stories with him (and King Arthur), head on over to her profile. Alastor doesn't belong to me (but his PoVs are written by me) but Donald and Tiberius do, and if you'd like to read more adventures with those three, then my profile is where you ought to look (and don't sweat, posting on Soul will resume as soon as finals are done). So, without further ado: Once upon a time in London, 1947...
The paperwork atop the desk had reached a level high enough that it presented a slight problem in terms of being able to see what might be coming. Thus, when a hand crashed down atop one of the piles, sending a week's worth of forms flying, Alastor Moody nearly fell out of his seat in surprise.
"What the—" he cut off abruptly, glancing up in time to realize who precisely had interrupted his afternoon work. Not that he had been making altogether that much progress on the daunting amount of paperwork, but still.
"Not sleeping on the job, are you, Moody?" Henry Hawkins asked.
Auror Hawkins, unpleasant at the best of times, had recently been promoted and had taken great pride in abusing this new power.
"Course not, sir," Alastor replied, struggling not to let his irritation show. "Did you need something?"
"Matter of fact, I did," Hawkins said, dropping a file onto Alastor's desk. "Got a call out for you."
Alastor's hands seized the file, irritation forgotten at the prospect of an actual case. Surely, being his first official case, this would be highly exciting, probably some Dark Wizard who had escaped the war trials, and that would mean danger, and...
He could not help but be dismayed to find no Dark Wizards of any sort waiting for him inside the file.
"A disturbance?" Alastor asked. This time, he did not even bother trying to sound civil. "I'm not taking a disturbance case. That's for trainees. Which, as you might recall, I am not."
Hawkins' resulting glower was just as satisfying as Alastor had been hoping. Quite a number of the older Aurors had been rather irritated when Alastor passed training, and he enjoyed reminding them of his new status.
"Just because they gave you a badge doesn't mean you can pick and choose your assignments," Hawkins growled. "That's my job, and you'll do as I say."
Alastor's fist closed around the file, meeting Hawkins' glare with his own. For a moment, he considered arguing, because really this disturbance rubbish was highly unfair. Hawkins was clearly just giving him the bad assignments. But Alastor had been told countless times in training to please at least try to keep hold over his temper, and having a row over his first case would only land him in trouble. Especially with all those Aurors looking for a reason to take away his new badge. Not to mention, angering Hawkins would probably result in a decade's worth of desk duty.
"Can I at least take Tiberius with me?" Alastor asked instead.
Tiberius Kirk, an exceptionally tall Scotsman and Alastor's best mate all through their Hogwarts' years, had just passed his Auror training as well. Bringing Tiberius along would at least mean Alastor could complain about this grave injustice.
"Kirk's busy," Hawkins replied.
Not remotely believing that, because Tiberius was never busy, not if he could help it, Alastor stood to look over the top of his cubicle and see for himself. Sure enough, two desks over, Tiberius Kirk appeared to be sound asleep, one wobbly pile of forms dangerously close to falling on his head. Alastor rolled his eyes and sat back down.
"Best get moving," Hawkins suggested. "Hate for you to miss anything important."
Hawkins turned and left without waiting for a reply, which was for the best as Alastor had nothing at all polite to say. He scanned through the file again, memorizing the address before shrinking a few forms and stuffing them in his pocket.
Alastor tried his best not to storm through the office, reaching the locker room and only managing to draw a small amount of attention. He pulled his scarlet robes off their usual hook, stopping in front of the tilted mirror to make sure everything was in place. His robes were buttoned up smart, highly professional and all that. His auburn hair was probably still a bit long for the department's taste but Alastor didn't much care. Most importantly, his badge was in plain sight, hanging on his pocket and gleaming silver against the scarlet.
Let Hawkins be mental, Alastor decided. And let Tiberius take his ruddy afternoon nap. Alastor would still be out on his first case as an official Auror and he would never tell a soul it was a measly disturbance.
The place looked abandoned and badly kept, probably having been damaged in the war and never repaired. Certainly looked like the hideout of a Dark Wizard. Alastor checked the address once more, just to make sure he had in fact arrived at the correct location. Next he ran a few basic Detection Charms, which flowed first around the outside of the building, then beneath the door and inside. To his great surprise, the charms actually seemed to pick up on someone hidden within the derelict building. Alastor gave the door a try, only to find it either locked or jammed, probably both.
"Anybody care to open up?" he shouted, banging one fist against the door and not entirely expecting an answer.
Anyone hiding in an abandoned shop, after all, probably did not want to be found. Just as he suspected, the place remained utterly silent. Some disturbance, then, if the fellow refused to even so much as open the door. Hawkins had probably sent him out as a joke, and that idea irritated Alastor immensely.
"Ministry of Magic, Auror Department!" Alastor tried again. "I know someone's in there, just open the bloody door!"
This time, a voice echoed from within the building, faint, but firm nonetheless.
"Go away! I don't want any trouble!"
Well, at least that had been an answer. Alastor glanced up the street, just to make sure no one was watching in case he decided to break in. He had enough paperwork to worry about without also having to go around Obliviating various Muggles. The street was fairly abandoned anyway, nothing more than another row of shops just as ill-kept as the present object of his attention. Still, one could never be too careful.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Alastor insisted. "Just sent to investigate. Why don't you come out here, and we'll have a chat?"
"Um. No. Thanks."
Alastor scowled, in no mood for that sort of talk from a potential suspect. He nearly shouted back when banging noises resounded from what sounded like the back of the house.
"HEY! Hey, back off!" whoever Alastor had been talking to insisted.
The noises did not cease, and in fact grew only louder. Alastor swore, because he'd be skinned alive if someone thought he had forgotten to check the back. This would of course have been highly unfair, because he had actually checked the back. The sudden arrival of several apparently hostile parties, however, did not make him feel much better.
"Everything alright in there?"
No answer, save for more banging and shouting, and Alastor concluded he would simply have to intervene. Not that he ever minded intervening.
"By authority of the Ministry," Alastor muttered, making sure his badge was in plain view. "I'm giving fair warning of my intent to enter and search this building."
Six seconds was the required time that had to elapse between informing a suspect of intent to enter and actually entering the building. Six seconds felt like far too long in Alastor's opinion, but he followed the rule all the same, drawing his wand as he waited. Then time was up, and Alastor kicked in the door, quite pleased that the disturbance had turned out to be exciting after all.
The door crashed inward, colliding with a wall, and the noise was loud enough to draw the attention of several people. Four men wearing black hooded robes seemed to have turned in his direction. In the corner surrounded by the men was a scruffy fellow who looked to be about his own age, wide-eyed and clinging to some battered old book.
Deciding he had given fair enough warning when he kicked in the door, Alastor hexed the nearest black-robed man. Four against one meant the scruffy fellow needed his help the most.
"Stupefy!"
The man went down in a burst of red light, but the other three had already drawn their wands and rounded on Alastor.
"The one with the book is who we want, get rid of the Auror!"
Two spells flew at him and Alastor dove sideways, landing behind the remains of a sofa. The place had evidently been a flat or a shop of some sort, because dusty pieces of furniture lay scattered around the floor. Across the room, the fellow with the book looked to be struggling to crawl through the wall. It had to have been the saddest escape attempt Alastor had ever seen, and he decided a diversion was in order.
Planting one hand atop the cushion, Alastor leaped neatly over the sofa, firing as he moved. He missed badly on the first two shots, caught the third man right in the chest with a stunner, and overall succeeded in distracting all three black-robed men. Unfortunately, he also succeeded in getting himself disarmed.
"Expelliarmus!" one of the men shouted, and Alastor swore as his wand went soaring out of his hand. Now he was outnumbered and wandless. Rubbish.
"Won't be hard to finish him now," one of the men said.
Now that was just plain insulting, really. Never in his life had Alastor gone down without a fight, wand or no, and he certainly did not intend to now. Alastor braced himself, ready to duck or dodge at a moment's notice, at even the barest whisper of magic. Avoid the first spell, get within range, punch someone in the face, yes that seemed like a good plan. The plan was altered, however, when the scruffy fellow finally propelled himself away from the wall and leaped between Alastor and the men.
"Stop!"
To the great surprise of apparently everyone, the men did in fact stop. Not only did they stop, but they seemed to be struggling to move at all, as though they had been immobilized.
"What in Merlin's name did you do?" Alastor asked.
"I...ah...I'm not entirely sure," the fellow said. He shook his head and started to lower his arms, but Alastor stopped him.
"Whatever it was, leave it that way," Alastor said, moving to retrieve his wand. "Now, first I'll say thank you for that. And then I'll kindly ask who exactly you are."
"My name is Mark. Can you please do something with them? I don't know how long I can do this—I don't know what I'm doing."
"Er...right," Alastor said. "Incarcerous."
Ropes snaked out and bound the black-robed men in place. When he was sure they were restrained, he nodded to Mark, who lowered his arms. The men started struggling immediately, but the ropes held fast. Keeping one eye on Mark, Alastor walked back over to the door and fired a burst of orange sparks into the air.
"Someone will be coming to take care of this," he explained in answer to Mark's confused look.
Mark's only answer was to sit down, beginning to look a bit ill.
"Are... are you hurt, or something?" Alastor asked, frowning but not entirely sure what to do. They had covered healing spells in training exercises, but they had never been his strong suit.
"I think I'm hallucinating," Mark replied, sounding as though he could not catch his breath.
"You're hallucinating," Alastor repeated. "Er... alright, what exactly are you seeing?"
"I'm in freaking 1947!" Mark snapped.
Alastor blinked, not entirely sure what the problem with that was. "June of '47, yeah. What's the problem?"
"Yesterday I was in June of 2010. Besides, that isn't the half of it!" Mark pointed to the black-robed men, still lying bound on the floor. "They're some sort of dark wizards who want me because I caused a disturbance, whatever that means. And you—" here he paused to point at Alastor now, "—you're from Hogwarts. I mean, at least you think you went to school there. And that doesn't exist!"
"Course I went to school there," Alastor grumbled, "It exists, I assure you."
Then he realized the first part of what Mark had been saying.
"2010?"
"Hogwarts doesn't exist. It's from J.K. Rowlings' bestselling children's series, 'Harry Potter,'" Mark insisted.
Alastor watched him warily for a moment, having no recollection of any such books or persons.
"I wasn't allowed to read it but I know that much," Mark added after a moment.
"...don't know any Harry Potter," Alastor said, "I know a Charlus though. Suppose they could be related."
What he did not say was that he thought this Mark fellow might not be all there. A case for the Healers at St. Mungo's, not the Auror Department. Besides, Hogwarts was quite real. Generations of witches and wizards could attest to that. Though come to think of it, Mark had used some sort of magic only moments ago.
"Hang on... where'd you learn magic then?" Alastor asked.
Mark just watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and a prickling feeling ran down Alastor's neck.
"You're going to report me," Mark guessed.
"I hadn't planned on it," Alastor admitted. "Seems like they were causing a disturbance, not you."
He aimed a kick at one of the black-robed men, just to prove his point.
"Oh," was all Mark said, standing again and beginning to flip through the book to which he had been clinging.
"What's that for?" Alastor asked. He had never seen a more battered-looking book in all his life. "Is that the thing those other wizards were looking for?"
"No. It's just something my mum gave me. Shop figures and stuff," Mark replied.
Alastor could not imagine why a book full of shop figures would be so important as to draw the attention of Dark Wizards, or even worth fighting over at all.
"Mind if I take a look?"
"You wouldn't be able to understand it," Mark said without hesitation.
Rather offended by that suggestion, Alastor gritted his teeth and tried to keep back his temper. Merlin, he had just rescued the fellow.
"And why's that?"
Mark had been pacing, still flipping pages at random, and he did not look up as he spoke.
"Because... it's in French."
French, admittedly, might not have been Alastor's strongest foreign language, but he felt like he knew more than most people. Thus Mark's previous statement only served to irk him more.
"I picked up a little French on the continent. Probably not enough to read your stupid book. And if you're hallucinating, maybe you ought to sit down," he added as an afterthought.
"Um, no. Thanks anyway," Mark said.
Mark turned toward the back door and shouted what sounded like Openian! The door burst open and Mark went sprinting down the alley that opened up behind the shop. Alastor hesitated barely a second, more than slightly surprised.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, charging out the door after Mark.
Mark had the lead, splashing through puddles and dodging a trash bin. He seemed not to know where precisely he was going though, and stumbled every few steps. Alastor had no trouble catching up, jumping over a trash bin that had been knocked over. He considered jinxing Mark, but if the fellow really was a Muggle, there would be serious trouble, not to mention loads more paperwork. Finally, Mark began to slow down, tripping up over something. Alastor took the opportunity to close the remaining distance and bring Mark down in a tackle.
The wind was knocked out of them both, but Mark did not struggle too entirely much, and Alastor hung on easily.
"Please let me go!" Mark said.
"And why should I?" Alastor demanded. "Already helped you once today, and you thank me by bloody well running off!"
"You have no idea what you're doing! I have to get back!" Mark insisted.
Alastor rolled his eyes, tightening his hold as he attempted to haul Mark to his feet. "Back where? To whatever loony bin you've escaped from?"
"You don't want to fight me," Mark said through gritted teeth.
"Honestly, I don't," Alastor replied. He was not in much of a mood to fight, at least not with this fellow. Especially not with the size difference taken into account. There would be no challenge at all. "But I rather like my odds."
"Forlǣtan!" Mark shouted.
Alastor found himself colliding with a nearby wall, wind knocked out of him in a painful gasp as Mark sprang up and dashed away again. Swearing under his breath, Alastor drew his wand and took aim.
"Stupefy!"
He must have whacked his head on the wall too, because the stunner arched harmlessly to the right.
"Oh for Merlin's sake," Alastor grumbled. "Petrificus Totalus!"
This time the spell struck, and Mark staggered for a moment before collapsing and falling face-first onto the ground. Satisfied and nodding to himself, Alastor took a deep breath before wandering up the alley. He leaned over Mark, wand at the ready as he loosened the charms just enough to have a conversation.
"Now. Are you going to come with me or not?"
"Promise me one thing," Mark replied, closing his eyes.
Alastor never much liked when people said that. Never could tell what people planned to make you promise to do.
"What's that?" he asked suspiciously.
"That you won't let them give me any drugs between now and four hours from now," Mark said.
Alastor had expected to hear, perhaps "don't arrest me" or "call my parents." Certainly nothing about medication.
"Er...I...wasn't planning to anyway but...alright," Alastor answered.
He could at least promise that in good conscience. Mark, for his part, made no response, as his eyes rolled back and he went entirely still.
"Is this some sort of..." Alastor rolled his eyes, not about to be thrown into another wall by this fellow's tricks. Mark's pulse seemed fine, if not a little slow, and he seemed to be genuinely unconscious. "Oh. Ah. Well."
With some slight difficulty, Alastor managed to lift Mark more or less off the ground, one limp arm slung over his shoulder. Checking to make sure the scuffle had not drawn anyone's attention, Alastor drew his wand, turning in place and Apparating away.
Mark's head felt like fire. Too much magic. Overdid it. His skin was cold with sweat, and his breathing was ragged. But he was thinking clearly—and he wasn't buzzing with energy. Alastor must have kept his promise, and not let anyone give him medication.
A burst of pain went through Mark's gut, and he groaned. He rolled on his back, blinking at the ceiling and wishing that one of these times he would just die instead of going through that fever again.
A man was leaning over him, and he waved. It was Alastor—the fellow who'd found him in his uncle's shop. "Feeling better?"
Mark closed his eyes. I'm still here, he thought, though he wasn't entirely surprised. "No."
"Do you remember anything?"
"Basically," Mark grunted. "Might have lost track of a few of your cuss words, but it's fairly intact."
Alastor took a seat nearby. "I'm happy to repeat them for you if you feel the need," he said, his tone a little offended. When Mark didn't respond, Alastor shifted. "Right, suppose now's a decent enough time for introductions. I'm Alastor Moody, er…Auror Moody, technically speaking."
Though he had already gathered so much, Mark nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Mark Wright, but I guess you already knew that."
Leaning back in his chair, Alastor asked, "Now, you feel like explaining what you were doing in that house?"
"Trying to get home," Mark answered. He stared at the roof, feeling every bone of his body aching. He should not use heavy magic for a while.
"And where might home be?" Alastor asked, taking out a notebook.
"Berry College, Rome, Georgia." Mark was about to begin his junior year there as a foreign exchange student. Go figure, he was halfway to graduation and then he somehow time-traveled into Harry Potter's London. "Or my flat in London. Whichever you prefer." He named the address.
"… Let's go with the flat in London," Alastor said, writing it down. "Someone going to be looking for you?"
Mark glanced at Alastor without turning his head. "Not for about seventy years." Even then, there weren't many people who would look for him. Those that wanted to use his magic, sure, and maybe a few people at school. But he had no living family to care.
One of Alastor's eyebrows lifted and his jaw went a little slack. "Er… back to that time travel business?"
"Yes. Is there a problem with me telling the truth?" Mark had been reading his mum's book again, which was a habit he needed to stop. Before she died, his mum made a journal for Mark that was entirely in Old English, filled with various spells and advice. But every time he ventured into the realm of Old English, he ended up getting himself into trouble. This time he had blinked and found himself in the street outside his uncle's old shop—except it was a good fifty years before his uncle would own it.
"No…" Alastor said, as if he wasn't quite sure. He tapped his pencil on his notepad. "Just… have you got a Time Turner then?"
"I have no idea what that is." Mark waved his hands, making a sarcastic guess. "Something to do with Doctor Who?"
"What's a Doctor Who?" Alastor asked, no comprehension in his face.
Barely resisting from rolling his eyes, Mark said, "Doctor Who. The TV series. Longest running in history."
"Haven't the foggiest." His eyes narrowed. "But I don't… wait, you mean like the Muggle shows?"
It was Mark's turn to look like an idiot. "Muggle? What?"
"Oh, Merlin," Alastor muttered, looking at his notepad. "This is ridiculous."
Rubbing his forehead, Mark closed his eyes again. "Look, can you quit saying Merlin?" he asked.
"Why?" Alastor demanded.
Mark groped for a way to explain it. "Because it's like swearing with Queen Victoria's name," he said. It's like swearing on your great-grandfather's name, actually.
"I've never sworn with Queen Victoria's name. What's it matter to you?"
Giving up on his point, Mark asked, "How about you can explain to me why I am in Harry Potter land?"
"Still dunno what in… what you're on about," Alastor corrected himself. "There isn't any Harry Potter that I know of."
Cautiously, Mark eased himself so that he was sitting up more. His middle felt like it was in knots, and he winced. "I thought wizards didn't exist."
Alastor snorted. "Course we exist. Just got the Statute of Secrecy and all that, so the Muggles don't know."
"What are Muggles?" Mark asked again, leaning back against the headboard.
"You know… non-wizards. Ordinary people. Folks that can't use magic."
This was too much. A secret wizarding society that Mark had never heard mentioned—excepting in a children's novel? But there was a way to find out the truth.
For a moment, Mark hesitated. He had not purposefully searched someone's memories more than a few times, and he was not sure if a wizard would be able to feel what he was doing. But his curiosity won out.
Mark looked Alastor in the face and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he felt himself relax, and just like that the room disappeared. He flashed through Alastor's memories and thoughts, his head reeling with all the information. It took him a moment to gain control and navigate through the stream of consciousness.
Alastor's life played before Mark's eyes in seconds: Hogwarts, a girl with glasses, the death of his father, training as an Auror. As far as Alastor was concerned, every bit of it was real.
There was a moment—foggy even to Mark—where he saw Alastor, older, hand on a glass and a friend of his berating him for drinking.
Hastily, Mark drew back into himself. The room settled around him, and there was a stabbing in his chest for a moment. Rubbing the spot of pain, he considered what he had seen.
Alastor was looking at him suspiciously. "What?"
Perhaps there was some truth here. Immediately Mark's skepticism argued, but he tried to push it aside. It was true according to Alastor—and for now, his life's testimony would have to do. "Alright. So what are you going to do with me?"
"I've no idea. You've not done anything wrong. Free to go if you like, I suppose."
Mark threw his feet over the side of the bed. "Great."
Standing, Alastor tucked the notepad into his jacket. "Though you'll want to watch out for those black robed fellows. And you'll have to go pick up your book."
For the first time, Mark realized that his book was not in the room. He glanced around quickly, while feeling his pockets. Panic rose in him. That was his only way home. "You took my book?"
"Didn't take it, exactly. You dropped it. Besides, just a book. My friend at the Department of Mysteries has it. Where we send all the evidence we collect—processing and all that."
Mark pushed himself off the bed. The room swayed, and he put a hand on the mattress. That pain was back, and he winced. "Can you take me there?"
"Sure." Alastor opened the door. "Just down a couple floors. Long as you feel like walking, and promise you won't faint on me again."
"I'll try," Mark promised. Alastor lead the way out and down a long hall. There were doors on either side, and it looked like a vintage hospital.
"So, where exactly did you say you were from again?" Alastor asked over his shoulder.
"London, originally," Mark answered, rubbing the back of his neck. He had moved to the U.S. for school, and just come back this summer to tie up the last matters in his uncle's will.
"Why didn't you go to Hogwarts, then?" Alastor asked. "They send you to a school someplace else?"
"As Hogwarts does not exist, that would have been impossible," Mark said, glancing in a door as they passed by.
"Would you stop that?" Alastor spun around. "It exists. Believe me. I'm this close," he held up two fingers, "to dragging you up there without your stupid book."
Mark glared. "I was homeschooled, and I currently attend Berry College."
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" When Mark didn't answer, Alastor went on, "Where'd you get your wand from, then? Some rubbish American maker?"
"Don't use a wand."
They came to a stop outside of what looked to be an elevator. Alastor turned towards Mark in surprise. "You don't use… but you froze those wizards earlier. Telling me you can do wandless magic? I don't think I believe that."
Mark was tired of being taunted. He held up his hand and whispered, "Becuman." Come. Alastor's notepad flew from his jacket into Mark's hand.
The gaping look on Alastor's face was quite satisfying. "Give that back!"
Mark whispered, "Bæc." He waited a moment. "It's back in your pocket," Mark told Alastor, trying not to look too smug.
"Fine," Alastor grumbled, checking to make sure nothing else had been taken. "Suppose you might be able to after all."
With a ding, the elevator door opened. Alastor stepped inside, motioning Mark to follow. The pain flared worse, and Mark wanted to curse himself. He shouldn't be showing off when he was so close to putting himself into another fever.
Alastor seemed to notice the look on his face. As the doors shut, he asked, "Not got a problem with lifts, have you?"
"No," Mark answered, putting his hand over his middle. "I'm just… not entirely used to using so much magic in such a short time."
"Really?" asked Alastor, rocking on his heals a little. "Never heard of that being a problem. Not like you did anything major, at least."
"Beside—" time traveling, Mark was going to say. But just then the floor dropped out from his feet. Gasping, Mark grabbed onto one of the rails against the side. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down nausea and sickly terror. The wood of the rail was cutting into his hands, he was gripping it so hard—and he could feel the urge to let the magic loose and wild. Panic made his control slippery.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed that Alastor had his arms crossed, leaning against the other wall with a smirk. "Alright there?"
Mark's stomach was still somewhere in the sky. "Oh god," he gulped.
"If you're going to be sick, I expect a warning," Alastor said, raising his eyebrows.
"If I don't crush this elevator you'll be lucky!" Mark snapped. He was about three seconds away from stopping the plunge himself. His gut was on fire—he was going to cave in and let the magic free. Based on how he was feeling, he had a pretty good guess that it would destroy the lift as soon as he released it.
Just then, the lift came to an abrupt halt, nearly knocking Mark to the floor. A cheerful voice declared, "Level Nine, Department of Mysteries." The doors swung open, and Alastor paused to frown at Mark.
"Just a quick ride," Alastor said. "No need to crush the thing."
Mark closed his eyes, pressing an arm against his abdomen and leaning on the rail. "Are we there?"
"Matter of fact, we are," Alastor said with mock surprise. "Care to come along?" Mark muttered under his breath, stumbling out. "Good man. Right this way."
There was a door standing alone at the end of the hall. Alastor knocked twice, then waited. Mark didn't mind—he was still getting his balance back, and standing still was about the best feeling in the world.
The door swung open, though no one was visible. Inside was a wide, circular room lined by twelve doors with no handles. Blue torches provided the only light, and the floor reflected like water underneath their feet as they entered. Mark took a glance down and then focused entirely on Alastor. The motion sickness was not gone yet, and the floor made him feel giddy.
"Welcome to the Department of Mysteries," Alastor said, extending his hands like a guide.
"Fantastic. Where is my book?"
"What, not interested in the tour? They've got brains in a tank, you know."
Mark tried to keep his voice from dropping to a growl. "My book, please."
With a shrug, Alastor approached one of the doors and knocked. "Don, you in there?" he asked.
The door swung open, and a thin man with round glasses poked his head out through a crack. Images of Hogwarts, cards, and books scrawled with riddles jumped through Mark's mind before he could shut them out. "I'm working?" the man—Donald—said, slightly annoyed.
Alastor motioned towards Mark. "This fellow wants his book back."
Donald turned to Mark, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. His eyes were sharp. "Very interesting book you have in your possession, Mr…?"
"Mark Wright," Mark answered.
"Mark. And then I say I'm Donald Pritchett, Unspeakable, so that I can say pleasure to meet you, followed by, please follow me." He opened the door wider, motioning the two of them to enter.
"Um, thanks," Mark said, stepping inside. The office was immaculately neat, every paper in perfect place and almost every surface clear. There were large windows overlooking the countryside. Mark guessed it was only with some sort of magic that they could see the country in the heart of London.
Donald went to a large desk in one corner and shuffled through a few papers. He held up Mark's book. "Here we are!"
Relieved to see it safe, Mark took a step toward Donald and held out his hand for it. "Thank you."
Tapping his finger against the leather cover, Donald looked past Mark's shoulder. "Did you get a look at this book earlier, Alastor?" he asked.
"Wasn't anything I recognized," Alastor answered.
Turning back to Mark, Donald remarked, "It's in Old English, if I'm not mistaken. Not many manuscripts like that. Do you mind my asking where you picked it up?"
Mark took the book, his hands feeling the soft prick of the leather. But there was something else—something felt different about it. "My mum gave it to me," he answered distractedly, glancing at the journal. Magic. In this place smothered with magic, he could still sense that something in particular had been done to his book. He forced the tension out of his shoulders as he glanced back at Donald, willing himself to see what had happened.
"Family heirloom, then?" Donald was saying.
Mark scanned through Donald's memories quickly. He'd made a copy of the book, for closer reading, but he'd given Mark the original. As the room settled around Mark again, he answered, "Not exactly. She wrote it, so it isn't that old." He hesitated. The book held secrets of his family, secrets to his magic. It would be risky to leave a copy.
But he could not very well explain that he had been searching their minds. And he did not know how they would react when he demanded the copy. As far as he knew, it would be useless to them—they obviously did not use the same guidelines for their magic.
Based on what he had seen in their memories, they would not do any harm with the information. He did not want to stir up trouble, and he felt desperately impatient to get back to his reading. There had to be a way for him to get home written in this book.
Mark turned to Alastor. "I'm free to leave now, yes?"
Alastor shrugged a little. "Sure. You remember the way out, or you need me to walk you?"
Mark locked eyes with him, looking for the way out. Once he had it, he shook his head. "No, I know how to get out." He walked to the door. "Thanks."
Moving to stand beside Donald, Alastor muttered, "Odd fellow, that one." To Mark, he said, "Nice meeting you, then. Enjoy your book, I suppose."
"Right." Mark hesitated, glancing back at them. When he looked at Alastor, he felt that memory again—drinking, miserable, weary. A memory that had not happened yet. Prophecy, Mark thought, feeling goose bumps rising on his arms. He had never been able to tell the future before. "Don't drink too much," he said on an impulse. "Erm—bye." He ducked out, and hurried to find his way back to the street.
Alastor frowned at Mark's retreating back, more at the parting words than at the parting in general.
"What's he talking about? I don't drink that much."
"You certainly don't," Donald agreed good-naturedly.
He had the look about him that meant his mind was elsewhere, but Alastor felt rather determined to have at least some small discussion on the mater. Besides, all Donald had to do was agree with him.
"Tiberius drinks more than me," Alastor said.
"Indeed he does," Donald agreed again.
Alastor considered this for a moment, still thoroughly at a loss as to what Mark might have meant. Donald, for all his agreeableness, was being no help at all. He would simply have to sort this out later. Perhaps over a pint, just to be ironic.
"Oh well," Alastor said, shrugging. "You made a copy, right?"
Donald, who had retreated back to his desk, snorted and fixed Alastor with a look overtop his glasses.
"Of course I made a copy."