Chapter 7 : The Department (Part One)
Magical Oaths
Traditionally speaking, oaths are either statements of fact or a sworn promise calling upon something or someone that the oath maker considers important, such as a family member, or a specific organization. The person or entity sworn to serves as a witness to the binding nature of the promise or the truth of the statement of fact. Since at least the fourth century B.C.E. Magical oaths have been sworn to many objects or statements, usually by using some physical medium to determine punishment when the oath is broken. All oath breaking is sensed by both parties involved, except for the mildest, thus allowing the aggrieved to do as he wishes in response to the slight.
{...}
Wood oaths are among the most ancient known type of magical oath, sworn upon the wood of a living tree, and when broken they force upon the oath breaker three-hour long paralysis. Wood oaths are relatively rare due to the relative ease with which a secondary party can reverse paralysis, as the effect is subject to the Finite Incantatem spell.
Bone oaths are a second ancient method of oath swearing; they are sworn upon human or animal bones, usually a skull or femur. When broken such an oath subjects the oath breaker to ossification of several voluntary muscles, thus making them almost incapable of free movement for an indeterminate amount of time; usually hospital treatment is required if antidotes are not at hand. Bone oaths are common among those working with dragons due to the effectiveness of the use of dragon bone in the oath.
Verbal Oaths are the most common type of oath and are sworn upon breath; oath breakers are subjected to extreme feelings of asphyxiation, generally leading to unconsciousness. Verbal oaths are one of several types of oaths sworn on in court, though use on minors is strictly regulated due to relative higher risk of complications. (Note 1964, London, Minister vs. Unknown Male) Unlike many other oaths, the entity sworn to does not receive any warning that the oath has been broken, thus making it impractical for widespread use. (The reason for this is currently being researched by the Dutch Ministry of Magic.)
{...}
Blood Oaths are considered the most dangerous and powerful magical oaths; they are sworn upon the freshly spilled blood of the person swearing the oath. Swearing such an oath generally requires the person to swear to life, magic or both, thus resulting in the person's swift oath upon breaking it. Blood oaths are strictly illegal outside specific government-mandated uses, and are classified as Dark Magic in most circumstances.
From 'Unspeakable Primer' Selected Passages, P. 133,134,137.
Harry stretched languidly on his new bed – it was considerably larger than any he'd ever had before and wonderfully soft. Of course, with his only previous experiences being a cupboard, a small cot in the smallest bedroom and an old school bed, he didn't have much to compare with. Still, it was comfortable.
He'd made his way to his new room – several stairs up and a considerable way down the halls – and found that it was already awaiting him. His trunk was in the corner, containing all of his precious belongings – his father's invisibility cloak, the photo album Hagrid had given him, his Weasley family sweaters, neatly folded. In fact, Harry noticed several things he distinctly remembered losing – an old pen that had slipped between the cracks of his room, a box of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes that had been stuck below the loose plank, several joke items. Whoever went to fetch them from the Dursleys did a thorough job of taking everything; Harry suspected it had been Moody, who could see it all straight through the floor.
The most surprising, then, was the massive – and entirely filled - bookcase on one side of his room; besides half a dozen volumes that Harry had been incapable of removing from the shelf – they were apparently enchanted – there was the full collection of books that he'd found back at Privet Drive, neatly arranged by topic, including several he didn't recognize but unmistakably had Lily Evans' signature jotted down in the front. Each of them also had the letters 'L.E.' on their cover in red ink. There were quite a few books there as well that he recognized as schoolbooks and gifts from Hermione that he hadn't gotten to.
It turned out that there was one book about magic that had his mother's signature – if the date of publication was anything to go by, it had been a book she'd bought in third or fourth year at Hogwarts. It merely said 'Awl Grimoire' and was largely written in runes; Harry couldn't make heads or tails from it. The few pages in English spoke about intricate potions, and judging by the pictures much the same could be said about the rest of the book.
Harry sighed contentedly as he got up from his bed, looking around his new room. It was roomy and coloured with yellowish and red hints, making it feel much like the Gryffindor dormitories. Indeed, the doorknobs were clearly the head of a lion and on one side of the room hung a painting of a knight in shining armour parading around excitedly, a flag with the roaring lion clearly visible.
"So, where is that manual, then?" Harry wondered out loud, and one of the books – well, it wiggled, he could've sworn. Harry calmly repeated his words. "Where is the manual."
This time, Harry knew he'd seen it move, and he quickly snatched it from the shelf before it could tremble itself free – Merlin forbid it was another Monster book of Monsters. As he removed the Unspeakable Primer from the shelf, though, a small booklet slipped from besides it and dropped to the floor with a distinctly oddly harsh thud.
"The Tales of Beedle the Bard," Harry read from the cover; the little book looked ancient and its binding was stained and peeling in places. The title was written in embossed runic symbols as well as in English directly below it. The booklet didn't have his mother's name in it; instead, there was a loopy 'A. Dumbledore'.
Harry flipped through it, noting that there were various comments in the sidelines throughout; this was an old and used copy of the book; as far as he could tell, a collection of children's stories for wizards. A late birthday present?
Thinking back on his birthday, Harry sat up with a start. Dumbledore had given him a book on ministry regulations – at the time a bit absurd, but perhaps now more easily explained. He'd known already that the Ministry was after him for a job. What had he said again? Looking at a page that didn't exist?
Harry quickly stashed the little book of stories back into the bookcase as he picked out the large tome he'd received for his birthday. It went to page 805, and Harry was pretty sure it'd been the same the last time he looked. Whatever Dumbledore meant, it wasn't as easy as this. The book itself was filled with page after page of tiny print noting all the various rules that Ministry personnel needed to adhere to. The Unspeakable section, amusingly, noted that the rules in this book were optional in some cases. Harry couldn't think of many reasons why an Unspeakable would request leniency on the rule that one shouldn't consume fellow employees while in the Ministry building.
Harry spend a bit of time flipping through is Unspeakable Primer – thankfully it was written in plain English and regularly referred to court cases that were actually described in another section of the book, so he didn't need to head to the library ever few minutes – and finally decided to do a brief series of exercises he'd done with Moody to improve his mental defences.
He spent half an hour doing occlumency exercises, and felt pretty good – they were relaxing even if they weren't terrible effective at keeping out the latest bout of annoying visions. It was time to get going, he decided, standing up from his 'Lotus' position, as Moody had called it. With a quick wave of his wand Harry locked the door of his room behind him as he walked off back to the stairs – there were still many hours of daylight to burn and he'd be hard-pressed to spend them on his bed. Under his arm was his brand-new copy of the Unspeakable Primer; hidden inside were the letters he's received.
Minster Rufus Scrimgeour walked briskly through his office, Percy Weasley close behind. The office, overly large as it was, seemed oddly cluttered now, with many boxes filled with articles stacked haphazardly around the large desk. There was an unusual amount of paperwork today, and that was nothing compared to the number of owls that had been delivering owls since earlier that day; dozens and dozens of them.
"Minister, is something wrong?"
Scrimgeour turned slightly, but didn't answer his aide.
"Sir?"
"Weasley, you may have noticed that I am thinking. Kindly leave me to it. I have enough to worry about without you pestering me on top of it. Have you seen this administrative mess?"
"Yes, sir." Percy answered nervously, "Do you wish me to do anything about Operative Mustang? You keep telling me you'll get to it, but you don't. I could go through these files, if you wish."
"Could you arrange a spontaneous drizzle instead? Inside?"
"Of course, but I hardly see how it would help matters," Percy answered, missing the sarcasm. "I take it you're not too fond of having Mustang in the Ministry?" Percy inquired.
"The Ministry's getting too bloody crowded with nutters, if you ask me," Scrimgeour grumbled in response. "Fellows from the future, retired aurors with twitchy reflexes, clairvoyant school kids and now a blasted walking flame-thrower."
"I am not under the impression he actually throws fire around," Percy responded with a frown. "Technically he's a Pyrokinetic, in any case. He's generally avoided immolating things."
"Who would ever intentionally learn such a pointlessly violent magical discipline, I ask you?" Scrimgeour ground out. "We can barely keep him in here without some heat-absorbing spells, lest he turns my office into a pile of ashes, as you well know. I can't imagine he's much easier to be around when he's actually casting."
"He's almost never here, Minister – I hardly think it's a big issue."
Scrimgeour sighed – it was true that the operative hadn't made it back to the building since before Fudge's departure. "Fair enough – it's just blasted annoying to have this on top of everything else. I feel like this week will never end. All I need is a Goblin uprising and Death Eaters and I'll have the full set."
"I don't believe you have any immediate appointments for the next few hours," Percy said. "You could take a nap. Maybe get your mind off things, a bit."
"No, I'll go find this Mustang fellow and make sure he's on his way as soon as possible." Scrimgeour sighed as he straightened his jacket, which was rather ruffled around the edges. "If there's any calls, you can send an owl to fetch me – I'll probably be somewhere in the building in any case. Knowing my day, the unpleasant parts."
"Of course, sir."
Scrimgeour strode out of his office, limping slightly. Ever since he'd been mauled so many years ago, the wound had never quite recovered; of course, that's what you get when you're dealing with Dark Wizards. Thankfully, it was merely painful to use the leg, not impossible, allowing him to maintain almost the level of combat agility as before. Alastor Moody, of course, outmatched him; that man could compensate for missing bits of his body like none other, even if he wasn't as spry any more.
The Pyromancer wasn't the only problem weighing heavily on the Minister's mind; he thought briefly of the new employee at the Department of Mysteries (who would undoubtedly make tomorrow's headlines), an agent from the relative future sent back for a significant event that could not be described to maintain the time line, and Dumbledore. Unlike Fudge, the relationship between him and the old headmaster of Hogwarts had always been amicable, but recent information about the vigilante organization known as the Order of the Phoenix was worrying.
On the one hand, Scrimgeour couldn't expect anything else from the veteran fighter of the Dark Arts; it was not likely that Dumbledore would let his age get in the way of doing what he thought was right. On the other hand, the organization was a wild card that was for all intents and purposes not under any governmental control. Worse, it was kept secret and as a consequence there was relatively little that Scrimgeour could do to interact, favourably or otherwise, with any of its members.
Of course, there was always the option of sending in an infiltrator from the Unspeakables; they were quite capable of doing the job. The problem with this plan was that Dumbledore had uncanny intuition and would sense that something was wrong very quickly; the chance would likely not repeat itself. There was really only one Unspeakable employee who knew the people well enough – but he was not experienced enough for such missions yet. It was doubtful that he'd even do it.
Scrimgeour passed by a small Obliviator squad heading upwards and nodded in greeting as he made it to the sixth floor; the Pyromancer would probably be holed up in usual corner all the way downstairs in the basement.
Scrimgeour walked on, puzzling out a strategy, mumbling under his breath. A small rat tailed him closely, one of its paws curiously silver.
Harry spent much of the afternoon looking on in wonder at the going-ons in the Department; nobody had even acknowledged him much, and it didn't appear as if anyone was terribly inclined to hide what they were doing. It was surprisingly open for a Department that was known for its secrecy.
Of course, Harry had figured out rather quickly that he wasn't really on his own. A blue-cloaked wizard had been trailing behind since he left his room – not an Auror certainly, as those had been good enough to stay undetected. Most probably it was an Obliviator that was tasked to prevent him from spreading what he knew already.
He'd spent most of the afternoon going between several lounge-like areas that were occupied by a number of Unspeakables squatting in corners, behind writing desks or leaning against the walls. Indeed, it didn't seem as if the Department had any standard on how an employee should do their job; just that they did it. Three or four Unspeakables he'd encountered were actually suspended from the ceiling, reading a book upside-down much like Luna Lovegood would. One was even squatting sideways on a wall – how he kept coordination Harry couldn't quite tell – the wizard in question didn't appear to be doing anything at all, given that his eyes were closed and his wand was on the floor, along with a book and several odds and ends that had probably escaped his pockets.
He's entered the prophecy chamber again – when he checked, he found that there was a small sign where his prophecy had once stood, noting its date of destruction. The rest seemed as he'd last remembered them; all neatly stacked back in rows. He read some of the names but a large number of them were already passed (there didn't seem to be any particular order to their storage, as Harry's was flanked by several about the 1800's.) The only name he recognized was Dumbledore's; the prophecy in question had apparently come true somewhere in the late 1800's.
Harry had finally set himself down near the edge of the Cosmos Department where he'd floated earlier, close enough to the door to get sufficient light, and began reading his manual. The book in question was rather big – if nowhere as huge as some back in his room – and contained mostly basics. Oaths and Vows were topics near the start – around the middle of the sizable section was a brief description of the blood magic used by Gringotts bank and the Unspeakable Vow that gave the Department Operatives their name, though it was only used for those involved in the highest level operations. It entire prevented a person from divulging information regarding the Department to anyone now intentionally permitted to. The book put it in the same category as the Unbreakable Vow; both were classified as dark magic, even if commonly used.
That was quite odd, actually; dark magic was described quite often, including ministry uses; it didn't even make moral arguments on why not to use them. It seemed that either the Ministry was a lot less goody-two-shoes than it liked to show – or the Department of Mysteries had a lot of leeway in how to apply the laws.
Along the way Harry noted that he'd been correct about etiquette; though it was expected for all employees to wear their official robes outside the Department or if there were announced guests, there was no uniform dress code otherwise, and working space was generally determined by the operatives themselves. Generally speaking, the book noted, this would be the room most appropriate for the topic – as all required tools would be at hand – or one of the general purpose rooms – no doubt the lounges Harry had seen earlier.
Skimming the rest of the book – he'd doubtless get back to it later – Harry noted an emphasis on what to do on outside missions for the Ministry; interaction with other Departments, extensive collections of court cases that were important if the Unspeakable were to be requested as a representative before the Wizengamot, and even a register of relevant contacts within the Ministry. With some shock Harry found that he himself was listed; it merely stated 'Future Employee', though.
"As good a time as any, it's not like I'm going to back down now." Harry muttered as he pulled out the letter he'd received earlier. It was short and to the point; don't share secrets unless people are already informed, forced prevention of accidentally spilling controlled information, obliviation only on request, and so on. After a moment Harry realized that the text was moving; as he read a line it slowly moved upwards and was replaced by a new one. With an exasperated sigh Harry read through the letter as it kept moving; there were quite a few clauses to take into account. Apparently he was to agree not to keep pet cross-breed animals on the premises nor to use Avada Kedavra to get rid of pesky animals. He briefly marvelled at what could've inspired such bizarre regulations. Finally, he used the provided quill to sign the letter, wincing as he thought back on Umbridge. He had to concentrate to write out his name instead of 'I must not tell lies.'
Harry blinked as he noticed that the book he'd used to smooth out his letter had changed; where before had been his name and 'Future Employee', now there was his full name, a small picture – a Hogwarts photo from last year given the robes – and 'Unassigned Employee, Temp.'
"I'm a Temp, eh?" Harry said, putting away his letter and book. "Figures they'd forget to tell me that till I signed."
"Talking to yourself isn't terribly healthy, you know,"
Harry whirled around, his wand in hand before he'd really thought about it. Floating several feet away in the black expanse of the chamber beyond was a blond-haired woman in a black Unspeakable robe.
"You must be the new recruit," she said, landing softly with a flourish of her wand. "Welcome to the Department, I suppose."
"Just signed, actually," Harry answered, sticking out his hand. "Harry Potter."
"I know who you are, Mr. Potter," she said with a smirk, shaking his hand. "Jocelyn Burbidge, from Scotland. I heard quite a bit about you from my nephew."
"Nephew?"
"Technically he's once or twice removed, I can never remember. Draco Malfoy. I'm part of his extended family, if you will. Pureblood, of course."
"I don't really care about that," Harry admitted, earning himself a glare. "That is to say, Malfoy and I never really got along back at Hogwarts. Can't imagine he told you many good things about me."
Burbidge scoffed. "He hates you with a passion, yet he can't stop telling me the most fantastical stories about what you've been up to. Tell me, did you really arrange for last year's defence teacher to be captured by centaurs?"
"That was my friend Hermione, actually," Harry admitted, scratching the back of his head. "Didn't know she had such a mean streak, actually, until then. I figure that whoever gets Hermione mad should probably look out."
"And fighting a basilisk with a sword in the legendary Chamber of Secrets?" Burbidge said, sceptically.
"Oh, that was actually me, yes." Harry said sheepishly. "Don't know how Malfoy found out the details, though. It's not very well-known."
"You fought a basilisk with a sword." she repeated dryly.
"Yes, actually. Back in my second year. It was living under the school." Harry responded with a shrug. "Bloody large thing, too. Almost killed me in the end there, but I had a phoenix around. Wouldn't advise trying it."
Burbidge snorted. "You get into an awful lot of trouble, I take it. Is that the most impressive thing you've done so far?"
"I figure defeating Voldemort a bunch of times is up there too. Driving off a hundred Dementors, too." Harry said shortly, shrugging. "I also managed to get away with smashing up Dumbledore's office, once."
"Certainly a deed to be remembered along with defeating You-know-who." Burbidge answered with a smirk - she had flinched at Voldemort's name. "I've got a colleague around here who's been telling me tales as well – I don't believe most of them. Indeed, you'd probably not believe most of them either."
While Harry tried to puzzle that one out, Burbidge drifted off the floor again. "I don't really have time to chat, at the moment. I'll be at dinner, later – if you'll come, maybe you'll meet some of our more eccentric guests. Most employees eat at home, so what stays behind is the real die-hards."
"I don't really have anywhere else to get food," Harry admitted. "I technically live upstairs, for now. The Minister arranged one of the rooms adjacent to the Aurors."
"Not too noisy, I hope?"
"Eh, can't be worse than what I'm used to," Harry admitted. Sleeping with snoring Ron for several years should have prepared him for anything.
"I'll see you at dinner, then. Maybe you should float around a bit here, if you know the spell. There's a colleague or two around Jupiter. If you find a wand, make sure to take it with you; there's been one missing for months now, and the magic doesn't stand out in this room."
Harry nodded as Burbidge floated off. She was, Harry figured, surprisingly civil for a cousin of Malfoy's.
"Afternoon," Harry said as he slowly drifted over to Jupiter, the largest planet in this model; it was indeed, rather huge even now. "Miss Burbidge thought I should visit you,"
"New kid, eh? Name's William Lassell, but most around here just call me Will. Except Burbidge, of course. She likes rubbing my last name in my face," the main grimaced. "Bloody bigot."
"Hated because you're a Muggleborn, I take it?"
"Half-blood," Lassell admitted. "You're lucky enough to have a pureblood father, she'll probably leave you alone. Consistency hasn't been her strong suit."
"I met her, earlier. I didn't think petty bigotry like that was allowed around here," Harry said, as he made to sit himself down on the large white-yellowish moon that was nearby. Lassell stuck out a hand, though.
"It is, it's the Department of Mysteries, after all. We are instructed not to get violent and the like, but discussing sensitive issues is sort of common and encouraged. We've got plenty on both sides. As for that moon – it's currently being monitored rather extensively, so we're not allowed to touch it for fear of messing something up with the spells."
"Is that the blue glow?" Harry wondered, squinting. "Didn't notice it, just now."
"Indeed. Actually, it's a spell that's searching for evidence of life." Lassell admitted. "Muggles think there might be something down there, and we have a much better chance of finding it."
"It's only a model, though." Harry said, frowning.
"It's rather more." Lassell said, with a smirk. "Though none of these 'models' as you say are as advanced as those of Earth, they're nevertheless accurate representations of the worlds they depict. As such research on these worlds will reflect real-world conditions. With enough time, we'll figure out if there's something down there – and if there is, the next step is going there for real."
"Muggles are already doing that, though." Harry said, thinking back to shows he'd seen on television. "I know that they've walked on the moon and I'm quite confident there's a whole bunch of unmanned machines with cameras."
"Half-blood here, you know. I'm up to date on what Muggles are doing." Lassell answered. "Though we haven't actually started yet, there's all sorts of long-term plans for getting wizards into space. Problem is, we don't really know if it's possible."
"Why not? If muggles can do it..."
"Naturally, but Muggles don't have to take into account a rather important aspect that wizards do have – magic. We have no idea if it'd even work away from the Earth. Many sources claim magic has its source in the Earth – someone leaving it might well turn into a squib on the way up."
"You could experiment, I suppose," Harry said, "I could think of a few people that could do without their magic."
"Even we're not that cruel, Potter." Lassell said. "They might suck out your soul or kill you, but I don't think anyone but the most depraved would rob people of their magic."
"So you've got standards, they're just silly ones," Harry joked. "Can't imagine anyone rather giving up their soul than magic. At least you can live with the latter gone."
"Not wizards and witches," Lassell said. "Most of them would die of shock within minutes. I don't think you realize how important it gets to our body, over time. There's a reason wizards get older than muggles, you know."
"Can't imagine space travel is a very popular topic among purebloods." Harry commented, trying to get away from the touchy topic. "I mean, you'd probably need to draw comparisons to muggles and the bigots would all turn red at even hearing that."
"Most of the support for the program is from muggleborn and half-blood wizards and witches, yes," Lassell admitted. "The Cosmos Chambers are currently the most advanced products to come out of this line of research – It all started back in the sixties. You can imagine quite a few muggleborns were rather inspired by the moon landings."
"Purebloods try to cut the funding, no doubt."
"Of course," Lassell answered immediately. "They'd rather pump their money into needlessly convoluted and unpopular issues. Mostly they want to invest in things like preparing for an eventual goblin uprising – despite our good relations with the Goblin Nation these days. Politics too, of course. Can't forget politics."
"Figures," Harry responded. "Seems they've got enough to get me on the team, though. I saw my salary on the letter earlier – not bad."
"Ah, you've signed? An official welcome to the Department, then." Lassell said, grinning. "I'm your local conspiracy theorist, I'm told. Burbidge never believes a word I'm saying though – such a pity."
"I've been part of actual conspiracies before," Harry said, smirking "I've also got a friend whose father seems to revel in it."
"Probably shouldn't hang out with me too much, lest people think I'm infecting you with my scary stories about Site 17," Lassell answered. "Just so you know, by the way – technically, Burbidge is your boss. She's everybody's boss, pretty much. The whole Department."
"Really?" Harry blinked. "She didn't mention anything like that."
"She doesn't advertise it. It's sort of a tradition to keep the new guy in the dark, actually – so don't act like I told you too much. You'll meet most of the higher-ups before you know their positions."
Harry turned to his book, but nothing of Burbidge's high position was mentioned.
"Book won't help you with that. We're thorough." Lassell said, turning to Jupiter. "Now, big boy, let's see what your insides are made of..."
Harry didn't get a response to his goodbye – he floated lazily away from the large planet, as if swimming through the air. It was quite relaxing, actually. He found himself going a long way upwards – after a while, he realized that the room must be gargantuan to allow it. His light charms didn't even reach any of the edges, though.
"Fine," Harry muttered, casting the Supersensory charm that Ron had found in one of his books. With a sudden rush Harry felt his eyes and ears tingle; the room suddenly came into full view.
Gargantuan was an understatement. Even with a charm like this, which highly increased the acuity of the senses – the room was too large to see all the way to the other end. Harry saw the ceiling far above – he'd not even reached a fifth of the height – and to Harry's surprise it also dropped off just inside the orbit of Uranus, with a huge spherical hole centred under the massive sun, which was flickering with strange protuberances launching from its glowing surface.
The noise, in turn, was remarkable; Harry could hear the planets moving very slowly through the air of the room, something undoubtedly missing in space; a low rumble or hum, perhaps generated by the sun itself spinning. On top of that was his own heartbeat, thudding swiftly. Several voices were too muffled to make out clearly – the rest were no more than murmurs.
Floating to the nearest wall – which took minutes – he found that the entire wall was covered in bouncing charms; it wasn't actually possible to crash into them since you'd just be bounced back into the room's interior.
It didn't take long from there for Harry to come to a conclusion. Oliver Wood would faint if he knew this existed.
Harry took off with a victorious cry, quickly speeding up to match what his Firebolt was capable of, twirling in between planets and moons with astounding speed. Without a broom.
Lassell shook his head in mirth as Harry sped by at ludicrous speeds. "Ten galleons to you, Alastor," he murmured. He should never bet with the old Auror again. What had he been thinking, betting about how many days it'd take the boy to learn the chamber's levitation charms?
Lunch, it turned out, was a private affair ; only about a dozen people actually stayed at the Ministry at dinner, given that almost all were old enough to apparate freely and had families.
Burbidge was at the head of the longish table that was set up in one of the lounge areas, which was currently otherwise unoccupied. It was honestly rather overly large for the small gathering but at least it wasn't full of disembodied brains nor did it require the dodging of pesky asteroids. Lassell sat one chair over, with the rest occupied by people he didn't recognize, save for Mirrikh who had taken the other end of the table. Harry himself sat down somewhere in the middle, considering he had no idea what the usual arrangement was.
Directly to his left was a rather rugged-looking man with long hair and a rather messy goatee. Harry was immediately reminded of Remus Lupin, considering the man's shabby look, even with his pristine Unspeakable robes. Werewolf, no doubt. The two vampires across the table from him were equally easy to distinguish; one of them was apparently rather hungry as he couldn't keep his eyes off the necks of the people around him. To Harry's right sat – or rather, floated – a rather demure ghost that reminded him a little of Moaning Myrtle. Several Unspeakables he'd seen during his earlier rounds filled up the rest of the table; one of them wearing a rather noticeable golden necklace with a silver hourglass at the end of it.
"As you may have noticed," one of the vampires said softly – the other was gazing uncomfortably closely at Harry's throat, though Harry supposed it was better than gawking at his scar. "Harry Potter has joined the Department of Mysteries, per the Minister for Magic's request, as well as that of the Temporal Department."
Harry blinked, looking over to the man with the necklace, who had reacted. He was a rather nondescript fellow. Harry thought he looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it.
"For the moment, Mr. Potter will receive basic introductions in each of our more significant Departments, as well as any minor ones that might become relevant." the vampire continued without a breath – Harry figured he probably didn't need it. "Mr. Potter is, as of today, officially classified as a Rank 2 priority due to high interest from violent criminals and highly prized talents that will be of great use to the Department."
"Rank 2?" Someone muttered to the side. "Isn't that the same as the Minister?"
"Indeed," the vampire answered. "As you well know, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord Voldemort has made a reappearance of late, and he and his followers have an interest in extinguishing one of their greatest failures. The fact that Mr. Potter has survived several such attempts already will only make them more aggressive, I'm afraid."
"The new protection measures will keep out Death Eaters," the werewolf besides him protested.
"We cannot take significant risks here, as you well know, Rafe." the vampire noted. Harry felt rather out of the loop by now. "Mr. Potter is not just under higher protection due to his significant enemies. Earlier today the Minister and a Department Head reported the observation of possible Oracular gifts."
The ghost next to him gasped, and turned on the spot. "Really? A male oracle?"
Harry buried his head in his hands. "Everyone keeps telling me I'm some sort of Seer. I don't know, I didn't even like divination at Hogwarts."
"Having an Oracle around here would be helpful," said the werewolf, growling. "Apparently it's already saved the life of one or two people."
"Which I am very thankful for, again, Mr. Potter." Mirrikh said with a smile.
"I'm not clear on why we should keep such a high-profile person in the Department, though." The second vampire said, eyes hungry. With a pop, a glass filled with red fluid appeared – Harry detected a slight sweet scent suddenly in the air – and the vampire greedily gulped up some before continuing. "We can't really keep it a secret for long. It'd keep the obliviators busy constantly."
"It's not going to be a secret," Mirrikh said, just as Harry was going to answer. "Due to his popularity the Minister figured it was better to have the public know of his occupation, even if they don't know what he's actually doing here. Keeps up the morale and any future stunts – as Mr. Potter is rather fond of getting into them – will reflect positively on the Ministry as well.
"Plus you could hardly hide the disappearance of one of the most famous wizards in Britain," thee werewolf, Rafe, muttered. "I suppose we'll have a media circus, tomorrow?"
"Bet on it." Mirrikh said, nodding.
"So, boy, had a pleasant day at the Department so far?" One of the vampires asked, the other greedily suckling on his pint of blood. "I haven't seen you around our parts, but I understand you've been advised not to. I work in the room with the veil."
"I was there earlier, but there were just a few Necromancers there," Harry said, remembering the earlier visit. "The veil was acting oddly so I figured I wouldn't just enter again without permission."
"Since we know of the reaction by your presence we've put new security measures in place – you'd have been stopped well before you could pose a danger to our researchers." the vampire answered.
Finally, dinner appeared on the table, and Harry thought he noticed the pitter-patter of house-elf feet. It wasn't Hogwarts, but a wide variety of delicious dishes were available.
"I just realized how rude we're being." Rafe said sheepishly as he got himself a steaming cup of soup. "We haven't done introductions."
"Oh, how silly of us," the vampire answered, though he didn't seem surprised at the remark. Several people around the table snorted or sent Harry amused glances. Must be that don't-help-the-new-guy thing that Lassell had warned about.
"I'll start, if you wish," Harry said, forestalling any excuses by the vampire. "Harry Potter – formerly a student at Hogwarts. I suppose I work here now, though all it says on my page so far is that I'm a temp and unassigned."
"A temp? I didn't know..." The ghost asked airily. "Well, erm, I am – or should I say, was, technically – Charles Aleyn, poet in life. I spent most of my death studying the finer aspects of its finality."
"Rafe Phelan," said the rugged-looking man. "Werewolf, if you haven't noticed by now. I am fully stocked on Wolfsbane Potion, in case you were wondering."
"Ever met Remus Lupin?" Harry asked offhandedly, and Rafe sniffed.
"Yeah, I've met him. Never really got on, but he was a decent enough guy. I didn't really know he was a werewolf too till far more recently. We actually went to school together, y'know. I'll tell you about it later."
"Miss Demetrion," a young woman spoke from besides the werewolf. "I work at the veil. I don't have a formal first name, if you're wondering – I'm an aspirant Necromancer."
"It's a custom among the Necromancers to sacrifice part of one's name," Mirrikh explained. "They don't eat with us either – they've got their own oddities there as well. As Miss Demetrion is not yet initiated we're pleased to still welcome at our dinner table."
"Jocelyn Burbidge, I work in the Space Chamber," Burbidge said lightly. "Chamber of the Cosmos, whatever you wish to call it. The one you were rocketing around, earlier."
Mirrikh chuckled. "I figured you'd be quick on the uptake with that, given that you got the spell right on the first try."
"Don't need the gesture any more," Harry said dryly, shrugging. "It's pretty much like Quidditch but without the broomstick. Maybe we should set up a game in there sometime, use a couple of Saturn's moons as bludgers."
"Better not," Mirrikh said with a smirk. "Last time anyone tried that we ended up with Mimas. Nobody quite wants to try it again after that little débâcle."
"William Lassell, we've met," said the next, smiling slightly. "Space Chamber, obviously." He gestured over to his neighbours, the vampires.
"In life, I was known under quite a few names," The first vampire said next with some amusement. "I am not often in England – I spend most of my time in the middle-east. Usually someone stands in for me. I know a little of your struggle with fame, I assure you. You may know me as Avicenna."
"I'm his assistant," the second vampire noted, though he didn't divulge his name.
The introductions continued – several people who worked in the hall of prophecies, one who worked in the room of thought (apparently also the room where Avicenna spent his time) and a woman who was currently responsible for administrative duties. The man with the golden chain hadn't deigned to even give his name.
"You'll meet him soon enough," the werewolf whispered with a grin. "He's from temporal, he's got all the time in the world to wait."
"I don't even really know what that means. He's a time traveller or something?"
"Of course." the werewolf said. "He's here from the future. He probably knows quite a bit about what's going to go down in the future, but he's not really allowed to tell us, since the Unspeakable's contract doesn't permit it. It's departmental secrets we're not in on, you see? Only other Temporal Operatives can really tell each other what's going to go down."
"So they've got supercharged time turners, then?" Harry wondered, eyeing the necklace.
"No idea, really. They travel in time and they don't quite get things in the order we do. I've met the guy twice now, and the first time he spoke to me as if we'd already met. The second time, he acted as if we'd never met before. He's not the only one like that, either."
For a time, Harry merely ate what he would, absently noting the conversation that his neighbour the ghost was having with the woman from administration – poetry was the topic, as the ghost kept reciting things from memory, though he carried a few ethereal scrolls on a belt strapped around his see-through belly.
"What section do you work at?" Harry asked Rafe, curious.
"I'm sort of between positions, now," Rafe said. "I worked in the Time Room – that's why I ran into that fellow over there so often – and I'm supposed to work with the new Room they're building, but it's not done yet."
"Does 'that guy' have a name?"
"None that I've ever heard," Rafe answered with a shrug. "Burbidge probably knowns, but I doubt she'd divulge it. It's not allowed for fear of people leaking identities. No clue if it's his real face, either. Plenty of ways without Polyjuice."
"I didn't think wizard society would be much weirder than Hogwarts," Harry said with a smile. "Shows you what I know."
"Didn't think much could surprise you after having school lessons from a quarter-goblin, half-giant and centaur," Rafe said with a smirk. "I've got a nephew in second year, he keeps me up to date."
"I suppose. There's even a ghost." Harry added, glancing at his neighbour who was still chatting about the merits of poetry, though he'd partially passed into the chair he was occupying, his plate still empty of any food.
"You'll probably get used to it soon enough. Take care to avoid the vampire's assistant, though. Don't trust him."
"Of course you don't, you're a werewolf." Harry said, smirking. "Smells like death and taxes, according to Remus. Don't know where he ran into any vampires, though."
"It's worse," Rafe answered with a disgusted look. "The old one's all right, though. Happens after they pass a couple centuries, I've heard. Must be near a millennium old to be this tolerable."
"He might've met the founders," Harry said absently. "Would be curious to hear what tales he has to tell about our illustrious forefathers."
"Eh, vampires always have a price for things like that. Mostly the same one, obviously." Rafe said, shrugging. "I'm disqualified. Animal blood, sort of."
"There's vampires that drink animal blood, though, aren't there?" Harry answered. "There's a bunch of types, as I understand. Never heard about that back in school."
"The animal-sucking kind are mostly weird. Skin like iron, and the newborns are aggressive as hell and fond of killing anyone that comes near. Most of them are equal opportunity hunters. Better to have our aristocratic types – they think that sort of thing is distasteful and rather below their stature.."
"Snob vampires. Just what you need," Harry said with a snort. "At least they can get along with humans, I suppose."
"We're rather fond of you, actually." Avicenna commented from right behind Harry. He nearly jumped out of his chair but a spindly hand, impossibly strong, kept him in his seat. "I apologize for startling you. Werewolves are, I'm afraid, not the only people here with good ears, and I heard you speaking of me."
Harry relaxed and noted that several people had left the table since he last looked – the ghost was mumbling under his breath now that he no longer had a conversation partner. Avicenna's assistant and the man from Temporal had also left. "Didn't mean to be rude." he said hesitantly.
"No problem." Avicenna said with a smile. "I am quite aware that due to the Ministry's laws, you will have seen very few vampires in the flesh, if you will. Britain in general is not a good place for most of us, given the draconian measures taken by previous administrations."
"Werewolves don't have it much better," Rafe grumbled. "This is practically the only governmental department that would even hire either of us."
"It's because our – condition – is controlled." Avicenna explained. "The werewolves who work here are supplied Wolfsbane Potion from our private labs, and a place to safely transform. Vampires like myself are supplied freely given blood – an initiative now extended to all vampires of England since the new Minister came into office – and we are even allowed a limited number of volunteer human companions. Traditionally, they're called thralls but I find the implications distasteful."
"I've heard a bit about that. I should read up on it." Harry said, nodding. "I heard a bit about a classification system with numbers – variations on being a vampire?"
"It's sort of complicated," Avicenna said with a shrug. "I'm of the traditional European type – tend not to turn people without permission, need relatively little sustenance to get by and it's all rather civil. There's all sorts of variations – older types, mainly – that are more animalistic and share quite a bit in common with the werewolf curse. Indeed, there's legends of the so-called Werebat that meld the two rather well, suggesting possibly a hybrid strain of the two conditions."
"You consider it an illness?" Harry wondered.
"I do not, but I would not disagree with the Ministry in their handling of the more volatile siblings of the European Vampire – which, by the way, is now a worldwide species – for example, there is a variant known as the Malkavian that has extreme insanity as a main component. None of such vampires can live in a normal society – they're even wilder than an animal would be. I would like to believe that the more civilized type is distinguished from those beasts."
"Much like Loup-Garou." Rafe commented. "Rare breed, that. Nastiest type of werewolves around, and a lot more dangerous than your average one. Allegedly they're the result of a separate curse that just mimics normal werewolves, though it's vague where it originated. A lot of the time, werewolves get the blame when a Loup-Garou goes on a rampage. Most normal werewolves are sane enough to lock themselves up in time – our big cousins don't even known what they are, mostly."
"There's different types of werewolves TOO?" Harry said, eyebrows raised. "I guess I missed out on all of this when I skipped sixth and seventh year."
"There's far more around than just the common stuff," Rafe said with a grimace. "I mean, you've got mock-werewolves all over the place – some don't even bloody transform, they just get the rage and start ripping people apart. Native Americans have their own too, I hear. That's just the wolves too. Let's not even start on all the other weres."
"Knowing my luck I'll run into all of them." Harry said with a grimace. "Probably without silver."
"Know at least that those who work here are safe," Avicenna said, as he moved off. "We'll talk later. Perhaps I will have an opening for a companion in the future."
"He didn't just say that." Harry muttered, staring at Rafe. "He didn't just bloody say that."
"Emphasis on bloody." Rafe answered with a chuckle.
"So you're talking, what, a month or two?" Jocelyn Burbidge asked, eyebrows raised. "That's remarkable, really. I mean, of course, I knew he'd be a big shot when he came in – publicity and all – but how's he going to -"
"You know I can't really go into that detail, Jocelyn." The cloaked time-traveller said – the last two still in the dining room, a privacy spell blocking their conversation from prying ears. "Timetravel's a tricky business at the best of times. All I can really tell is that somehow, within three months from the date we've been given, your newbie's going to be building bridges with the Americans."
"You have no idea how he's going to accomplish it?"
"No idea, whatsoever. Unless we send someone there by the Slow Path, there's no Temporal Operatives near that time, and as far as our records go, we didn't send anybody."
"I still don't understand why you can't just pick a date and go there," Jocelyn murmured. "You're time-travellers, what's the problem?"
"You don't really understand the way in which we govern time-travel." The man said with a gesture. "It's not as simple as picking a date and off you go. Sometimes, that works, certainly – but only because you hit a date that fit. You see, you can't really alter the past – any changes you may have made in the past already happened to lead you to the future in which you travel back. There's no overwriting history as far as we're aware, and history is not filled with inexplicable time travellers popping up all over the place."
"So what does that even mean?"
"Means we can only go back to certain points." The Temporal Operative answered. "Any of our time travellers records his or her presence in a certain time period by date, and puts it into our files – that way, we can look at the various files we've got available and tick off which of the various missions one of our operatives is destined to do."
"What if someone didn't record being in the past?"
"That's possible, of course, but we have a dedicated group of people and at the very least none of them have destroyed the world." The man smirked knowingly. "Very comforting, I would say, that the world's still there in a year."
"Can you tell me anything about then?"
"Not even you, my dear Jocelyn. You're not one of us, and as far as we are aware, you won't be one either. I apologize."
Jocelyn snorted as the table was being cleaned around them by the nigh invisible magic of house-elves. "I don't even want to join your group. Sounds like a giant headache to me."
"It can be." the man said, nodding. "Take your newbie, for example. We don't have a record for all his activities, but we are certain he's going to be a Temporal Operative in the future."
"He is?" Jocelyn said, eyebrow raised. "If he's destined to do that, why not simply hold off on that job? It'd mean he can't die in between, can't it?"
"Unless the records we have aren't from the real Harry Potter," the man said. "It's not as easy as all that, I promise. We are not the only ones with this magic, and we've been back to stop idiots from trying to change the time line a lot of times."
"That's not possible though, is it?" Jocelyn answered, frowning.
"Technically it is – if whatever was changed is what led to the current time line. Doesn't mean we shouldn't stop them though – quite a few are obviously destined to be stopped from changing by our operatives."
"This is giving me a headache."
"Try passing Temporal Grammar. I will have failed three times. I've yet to do them in the past. I probably will have done them in the near future."
"Stop that!" Jocelyn said with a giggle.
Sneaking in was the easy part, really.
Peter Pettigrew, known commonly by his nickname Wormtail was squatting under a low table in his Animagus form, rigid – imitating the many stuffed animals that were around him. Thankfully, the Department of Mysteries, for all its safety measures, had not counted on animagi lifting along with authorized wizards. Leaving would be a whole other matter, but if his mission was successful, it should be quite easy to accomplish to get in and out the next time.
Guarantee there's a way to shut down the wards. Easier said than done. Large-scale defensive charms – commonly known as warding spells due to their use for warding off dark magic or unauthorized people – were almost always cast upon something solid, such as a building's so-called heartstone or a pillar of the foundation. The stronger the wards, the more magically potent the target of the spell had to be – and like Hogwarts, the Ministry would've cut no expense.
It wasn't very hard to guess, really. Wedged in between the rings, swords and magical cups was a large obsidian obelisk inscribed with runes, glowing softly. It was one of the few items that was covered in multiple layers of defensive charms of its own, preventing anyone from touching the object without getting a nasty curse thrown in their direction.
The Wardstone, no doubt. Lord Voldemort had known what it was, of course – he'd been in here before, decades ago, and the item in question had been in use even then. The Dark Lord was planning his capture of the Potter boy and this pillar was the key to snatching him from his new home away from home.
Now, it was just a question of putting the plan into action. Looking both ways to avoid detection, Pettigrew shifted into human form and opened the little bag he'd taken along. His hand disappeared impossibly far within it.
Author's Note :
Minor references to : Monty Python, Dresden Files.
Rafe Phelan, based on less obvious wolf references than Remus Lupin, as well as a nod at Phelan Porteous (Phelous) from ThatGuyWithTheGlasses.
Charles Aleyn, ghost of an actual historical poet – actually a wizard, it turns out, in lieu of the chocolate frog cards. (?-1640ish)
Avicenna, ancient vampire based on the historical Muslim polymath Ibn Sīnā, known with the Latinized name Avicenna. (980-1037) There's a certain irony given the man's recorded words ("I prefer a short life with width to a narrow one with length.") though he came back on this late in life and was quite distraught over it – this is merely a possible continuation from there. No offence intended to any believers or historians. ;)