Chapter 2: Destructive Tendencies are a Requirement in the Job Description
Flavian is possibly having one of the worst days he's had in a while.
Morning ushered in a series of new and horrendous cursed artefacts—courtesy of the current terrorizing Dark Lord—with several inspections ending in indeterminable stays at St. Mungo's, while the afternoon had been a cluster of unfortunate tests with time magic, a space-time fracture being the worst disaster they've seen all year—he needs to place a minder on Croaker before he kills someone again. Flavian even dropped his dragon egg ice cream onto the dark ages text that he received the night before. Impervious to magic, the Scourgify he sent did little other than fizzle out.
Sometimes the temptation of retirement is ever so sweet. But he's in his hundreds, the prime of his life. Parting from the Ministry now would leave him unfulfilled and possibly bored. No. Definitely bored.
However, just as the evening arrives a Patronus from Margarite Gillespie pads in.
Silver strands shimmer around the oversized creature. Even after all these years, Margarite's lynx remains the same. Its small rabbit's tail bobs as it prowls about the room.
"Flavian, it's been some time." The lynx stops to sit on its hind legs. "I have sent a girl to your department; however, as I have not heard from you, I fear that she may have taken a wrong turn. It appears my secretary misinterpreted my instructions, sending her to the Atrium instead of directly to the Department of Mysteries."
"Her name is Irene Hill. She's fifteen and of eastern descent. It is imperative that you find her before she gets into trouble. She's a Late-bloomer and muggle-born with no knowledge of her skills or of our community. Based on the scans we ran, she awakened little less than three weeks prior to her visit. Please count this as a favor. I'll owe you, if that makes things any easier."
This was possibly the best news he had in decades despite the unfortunate side-effect of having to deal with a child.
In a flash, Flavian grabs his wand and rushes out the door, heading for the front desk. Conversation with the incompetent Parkinson—it's no mystery why he wasn't able to make auror, his mind is undoubtedly empty—leads him to the Department of Magical Enforcement.
Flavian dispells the locking charm on the door to the interrogation chamber storming in.
It's a boring bland space, characterized by the usual black tiles lined in white mortar. The Ministry and monotony seem to go hand-in-hand. A simple industrial metal table sits at the center flanked by two chairs, both occupied. There's a tray of sweets and drinks that sits at their sides. He instantly recognizes the larger occupant.
"Emerson," Flavian growls lowly. "Explain to me," he glides into the room, "why exactly an underaged witch is being subjected to an unfair, unrepresented interrogation?"
He meets the young witch's eyes. They're a striking black that appear endless. A void painted on pale canvas. One that pulls in all light. Her onyx black hair reflects only blue light from the dim sconce on the wall while it cascades down her shoulders and back. As a thin, wiry thing that a gust of wind could knock over, her locks appear to be cloaking her. It's like looking at a nymph.
Emerson huffs. "You and I know very well what Grindelwald is capable of, Flavian."
Golden bindings stretch over the narrow thin of the underage witch's wrists. Flavian takes a deep breath to meet Emerson with a glare. "Regardless, we do not treat children like this," he hisses. Withdrawing his wand from its holster, he twirls it in a wordless counter at the girl. "Do things the proper way or not at all."
Irene's bindings disintegrate into white particles. He hears relief escape from her.
"Come Miss Hill, we have much to discuss." He motions to the door never looking away from Emerson.
The auror is still glowering at the young witch. What is he, thirty this year? Flavian wonders when a child becomes an adult, that maybe it's a choice or a collection of tests that forge maturity rather than force it with a simple tick of a year passed. When Irene leaves the room, Flavian exits, his robes billowing behind him.
Footsteps echoing off the narrow halls of the Ministry, Irene follows behind diligently and in silence. Flavian makes no effort to brew conversation. They have plenty of time for that in his office. The black tiled walls speed past them as they make their way to the floo to leave for the nineth level. He gives her distinct instructions and watches as she shouts the office room number and level before being consumed by the flames. Following, he does the same.
Green fire engulfs him and recedes as he steps out. But there's no girl in sight.
"Ugh."
Flavian stares down with an eyebrow raised.
"Sorry, sir. I'm not used to the floo." Young Irene rubs her hip, sprawled out over the dark wooden floor of his office.
"No need to state the obvious, child." He shakes his head and removes his robes to place them on the rack before taking a seat at his desk.
She springs to her feet within seconds to take the cushioned chair in front of his desk at the center of the office. The snoring behind him tells Flavian that the portrait of Levina Monkstanley is sleeping soundly. He sends a charm at the painting to prevent any noise from waking the dozing research enthusiast.
"Now then." He flicks his wand and several items from the shelves fly to position themselves on the desk. A crystal magic conduit, spherical and opaque. An affinity scale, disk-shaped and bordered in eight gems. And The Book of Ancient Magics, bound out of metal—a piece the first unspeakables had started centuries ago with the intent of documenting all forms of Ancient Magic. They've gathered some dust since their last use nearly thirty years ago. He mutters a Scourgify. "Healer Margarite informed you on your particular circumstance, yes?"
"Yes." Irene stares at the items in curiosity. "I'm a Late-bloomer likely to have Ancient Magic."
"Not 'likely' but certain. I've seen four Late-bloomers in my lifetime and all have had some rare talent. You are the fifth, Miss Hill. I doubt you'll be the exception." He holds his hand out, palm up, across the desk. "We need to test your affinity, aptitude, and resemblance to other magicks before we work out the finer details of your situation. Please place your hand in mine."
Irene, the fairly tolerable child that she is, does as directed and without complaint. Flavian pushes his magic out from his core to his arm then his hand. The girl startles when he presses it into her palm—hand pulling away from him.
Must be magic-sensitive. He places his hand on his desk. "Have you understood the gist? I push from my core—my chest—and through to my arm."
For a moment she considers, then nods her head. "I think I can manage."
"Then, as I have just exhibited, please push your magic into this." He picks up the metal disk and passes it to her.
She handles it in her palm. There's nothing for several minutes. Her face pinches, frowns, and twitches as he imagines her trying several techniques. Then finally, the item's gems light up in a ring.
Flavian frowns.
"What does that mean?" she asks.
"It means this test is unhelpful unfortunately." With no specific affinity it indicates her magic has little to do with the eight basic elements. He passes her the crystal ball next. "Please repeat the same method; however, keep pushing until you can't."
She does as asked. The crystal ball lights up to a pale yellow at first, but then begins to rapidly change. Green, blue, indigo, violet, and red. She pulls her palm away soon after, her face growing paler than her already ivory skin.
Three weeks? That's all she's had to grow her core. It's positively fascinating that she's obtained this level of power.
"And the red?" Irene asks.
"Your power is on par with the average Hit Wizard." His eyes are filled with avid interest. The last users of Ancient Magic hadn't nearly been as strong. Their powers didn't necessitate such force. "And you still have room to grow! Fantastic." He slides the book to her and sits with bated breath. This is the moment he's been dreading and awaiting.
As she pushes her magic through the object, the tome opens. Pages flip through the book until it stills. Flavian peers over. Only blank pages reflect.
"Oh, Merlin's tit," he sighs. "I was afraid of this." His wand is drawn within a blink. "Accio Ancient Magic of the East." A wooden bound book flies into the palm of his hand. Its bark chaffs his skin. He flips through the pages until he finds the appropriate chapter. Rituals. He fingers through the different sections. "Hmm. No…not possible. Perhaps. That's…" he mutters to himself whilst reading through the passages of the book. "Ah-hah!" He places the tome on the desk.
"Now Miss Hill, as you have heritage in the East, I believe we simply haven't encountered your given magic, and if we have, it most likely has remained undocumented. Therefore, we will have to utilize rituals from that area in hopes of understanding your particular proclivity." He turns and slides the open book to display the chart on the page in his excitement.
"Out of the three Dantians, I found Qi the easiest to approach. As you see, this section explains how to open the 'Qi' lines. Some in the West call them meridians." His finger slides over a line indicated in the center of the body. "According to this passage, Ancient Magic can be assisted through activation of certain points on the Du Mai and Ren Mai. These 'lines' are—"
Flavian sighs. The poor child's eyes have glazed over during his enthusiastic explanation. But really what should he have expected with an uneducated, recently awakened, previously muggle child. It takes an arm and a leg to get the usual magical children involved, it would take a miracle to get a muggle child to understand. He coughs and restarts.
"To put it simply, I will attempt to open certain magical systems in your body."
Irene gives him an apologetic smile—and isn't that endearing? She's quite understanding and patient as she agrees to the procedure, and Flavian thinks that he won't mind assisting her throughout her journey into the magical world. Granting her with a reassuring smile, he promptly conjures an examination table and asks her to lay.
This time Irene doesn't jerk when he pushes his magic in. Gradually, Flavian works down the meridian lines, hitting each core node. He must be doing something right as she breaks into a cold sweat—proof her magic is releasing from its core. With her breathing accelerating with each ensuing Qi point, Flavian prepares for the last part of the process. His hand hovers above her heart. He feels the moist heat that radiates from her body with latent energy. He places his open palm on her chest and breathes.
Then Irene's stomach growls.
He blinks.
And Irene blusters, "Uh, that's…." Her face colors. "I, uh, sorry. I haven't had a meal since before I left for St. Mungo's."
He sighs, remembering the tray of tempting food in the interrogation chamber. It was likely spiked with potion. Clever of her to refrain from eating. "I will push my magic through you now. I want you to mimic the circulation I attempt on your own after I let go."
The press of his magic pools into Irene's core. This time her arms and hands twitch, most likely wanting to resist. It's an uncomfortable experience for someone with magic sensitivity and he can empathize. Despite this he begins to circulate it through her magical passages. Hopefully with exposure to the magical world her sensitivity will lessen. When his magic snaps back inside himself, he takes a step back and waits.
Irene breathes out. Then opens her eyes.
Flavian narrows his. There's an unnatural silverish glow to her irises that starkly contrast with her natural black. That's certainly something….
She's peering around wordlessly, eyes wide, a look of wonder in them. Her gaze continues to flicker about, eventually landing on him.
"What do you see?" Flavian asks.
"The…meridian lines? Tiny particles of light? They're in everything," her tone is breathless, awed.
The sound of scratching steals his attention. The Book of Ancient Magics is open, active—a quill jotting away to record.
He turns back to Irene. Magic sight. "Magnificent. I believe you are observing magical energy at this moment. It's an uncommon skill, not many have the ability, but some are able to develop it. I'm afraid I am incapable."
Irene's stomach rumbles once more. It's louder this time, a sound great enough to ring in the room. Flavian makes a memo to take the girl out to eat after this. Opening her magical channels has undoubtedly spent a good amount of her dwindling energy.
He watches her, hoping that something new will occur—something to indicate her magic's innate abilities. Those with magic sight do exhibit glowing eyes, a side-effect of magic gathering around the corneas; however, Flavian doesn't believe the silver iridescence of hers is anything but a characteristic of her own unique Ancient Magic.
She turns and looks back at the desk. A glimmer of purple flashes through her eyes. She's unnaturally fixed on the collection of artefacts.
Irene's hunger hasn't abated since she's stepped into the Ministry, only stubbornly settling in to eat at the lining of her stomach. She's tried her best to ignore it, will it away from the forefront of her mind. But it persists in the lazy writhing of her abdomen.
God, she's even more hungry now that her—what did he call it?—Qi lines are open.
A light from across the room pulses. The crystal ball shines with a blinding white, magic flowing around it and inside. Irene can't seem to look away. She rises from her position and steps across the room. Before she knows it, she's staring down at the orb. Her fingers hover covetously over the top of the sphere. Her mouth pools—hunger overwhelming her.
She places her hand atop the crystal. The light intensifies, blindingly bright. Her eyes shut, and she's suddenly hit with warmth. Something's flowing into her palm. It feels nice, filling. She sighs into it. Her muscles grow lax. But then she remembers what she's touching, where the warmth is coming from. She drops the crystal ball as if scalded. However, the damage is done. The orb bounces against the table and falls to the floor in a thunk. Her eyes chase it as it rolls across the dark cherry-colored wood and is brought to a stop against the examination table.
Her breath hitches. It's lost its shine.
Irene panics. "I didn't mean to!" She's waving her hands around manically but then realizes what she's done. She's sucked the magic out of that thing. Her face pales, and she digs her hands into her pockets. "I touched it and then the light—the magic—was sucked in!"
Unspeakable Fontius—an older gentleman, tanned skin, silver haired with a few chestnut strands, and light hazel-colored eyes—looks at her, his expression carefully blank. However, she sees the calculating watch of his eyes. He starts cautiously, "Miss Irene, you've done well to keep your hands in your pockets. Now, you need to stop channeling magic into your middle."
She swallows thickly. The sweat that trickles down her neck has gathered to dampen her shirt collar. Hot breath puffs out of her throat clouding the air in front of her. It's impossibly warm. Irene feels a blaze inside her, her chest on fire. God. She reaches deep within herself. It's like a river, untamed and wild. Streams run in trickles than rapids through her body, yet all end at where they began. She's urging it to constrict, slow the flow, but nothing happens. Instead, it almost feels like it's seeping out of her. A dam only redirects the water after all.
The room's still glowing in a rainbow of colors—flecks of magic swirling freely around her and from her. It's something new, her own magic sparking out of her, attempting to touch things it shouldn't.
Dread gathers in her stomach. "It's not working." The panic can't be any more apparent in the shrill note of her voice.
"Let's try something different then," Fontius says with an air of tranquility that Irene can't understand. He gestures to his desk. "You appear a bit overheated. The Du Mai is said to bring heat, perhaps that pathway is over extended. Your Ren Mai in reverse is cooling. Shut the lines that bring heat and force the other pathways to open."
Irene's lips quiver. She was listening when he'd went into the details of his ritual, but she didn't understand what he was talking about. Dantians? Qi lines? It's all very theoretical and she's got no clue what the actual science is behind it.
Her eyes are shut once more in concentration. The flowing river is too fast for her to grasp. She reaches inside focusing on her chest, but she doesn't understand where to open and where to close. She swallows. God. What happens if she accidentally touches something again? Oh, God. What happens if she accidentally touches someone? Her jaw clenches. How can she stop her magic from bursting out of her?
"I can help set you up with some emergency potions for magic bursts and an exercise routine that will act as physical therapy for your magic…."
Madam Margarite. Irene's hands are in her pouch before the idea registers. A black potion in her grasp, the consistency of sludge, sloshes in its small spherical bottle. She pops the cork off.
Bottoms up.
She clenches her eyes liquid chills her throat to her stomach. The residual cold travels through her body and to her chest. She takes long labored breaths and feels her pulse slow while her temperature levels out. When she deems it safe, she opens to see that the room has returned to normal. Her breath of relief is echoed by the Head Unspeakable. Only now does she realize he was just as tense as her.
"Well, I believe I should owl Madam Margarite for the wonderous potion." Fontius smiles and walks around the examination table. "Miss Hill, I do believe I've never seen anything similar to your abilities and have not yet read about anything related to this." He plucks the crystal ball from the floor. "It's been rendered inert as I was afraid of. It seems your innate talents have something to do with magic absorption. Though it may be too soon to say. However, I fear the effects of inflicting your powers on beings that generate magic rather than objects that house it." His smile tilts to a crooked thing. "You will need control of your talents, as I will need to research what exactly your abilities are."
Irene slumps onto the chair once more. Her hands are shaking around the empty bottle. She bites her lip. The unnatural fullness and satiated hunger whisper in the back of her mind.
"What do you think about an apprenticeship?" The sparkle in Fontius's eyes is bright and mischievous.