Chapter 3: The Beginning of Something is the End of Another
A contract signed in her own blood. What an ominous sign. Irene pushes the parchment forward and back to Unspeakable Fontius. The employment representative from the Ministry gathers the papers and informs Irene she'll finish preparing the final documents and file the paperwork by this afternoon. She leaves the room with a polite handshake, while Fontius and Irene are left in his office alone.
She fumbles with her new wand that sits tucked away in her pocket. It's been about a week since they met, and Irene's been given a different task to finish each afternoon despite not being an official employee until now. She dreads what it'll be like when she's officially under him. Irene stops her fiddling, removing her hand from her robes. With this, her apprenticeship in the Department of Mysteries has been decided.
She starts her new position on Monday.
Fontius raises a brow at her. 'I imagine you did not sleep well?'
She winces. Does she look that bad? 'Not great, no.'
He grunts and slides a potion to her. 'A Pepper-up. Think of it as muggle caffeine but more efficient. Have you received your wand?'
Irene slides it onto the table.
'Very good. As I mentioned before, I recommend not using your abilities outside of the department. You'll likely need to avoid touching your wand as well during your active moments.' He picks up the wand and examines it. 'Larch?'
She nods.
'Interesting.' His mouth opens in further question, but then closes. 'Since you're officially contracted with the Ministry. We should discuss expectations first.'
Irene is thankful for her trip to Flourish & Blotts. There are too many rules and regulations for her to remember perfectly, and although Fontius is patient he doesn't look like the type to explain something more than once. The nib scratches over her notebook in quick annotations of his list of warnings.
'I also expect you to study while your apprenticeship is in effect.'
Her quill stops. 'What?'
'You have no education, Miss Hill. It is not conducive to your future.' He levels her with a stern look.
She lets out a pitiful whine.
He sighs and flicks his wrist. Several books stack themselves on the desk. 'I expect you to read through these texts.'
Irene checks the title on the top, 'Hogwarts: A History.'
'This is the entire collection of first and second-year texts for Hogwarts' students. I expect one to two chapters from every book read each week. I will test you frequently so I will know when you aren't keeping up with the curriculum. Mondays will be practicals and Wednesdays we will hold theory.'
She knows he has a point. This is for her own good. Yet she can't help but frown. Studying has never been her strong suit and soon Fontius will know that too. 'Why the hurry? Isn't it better to learn gradually?'
'Your enrolment at Hogwarts come fall has been decided. You have a deadline to learn coursework from years one to four before you depart. Unfortunately, time is of the essence.'
'Wait, who decided?' If it's Fontius, maybe she can convince him to give her another year.
'The Ministry of Magic.' He flips a parchment around to show her. 'As you know, I sponsored your registration to expedite the process.'
Irene skims it.
'Dear Mr Flavian Aurelius Dante Fontius,
We celebrate the registration of Miss Irene On Hill as a member of the British Wizarding Community…. As accordance with Bill…all underaged registered Magicals must be educated in standard of…. Failure to comply is a punishable offence….'
She slumps back. 'I'm sorry, but there's absolutely no chance of getting me through four years of schooling in seven months.' How's she supposed to manage this on top of everything else?
Fontius grunts as if expecting her answer. 'We will at least get the basics in. Perhaps I can work something out with Headmaster Dippet for your school year. Regardless, you are to read chapters one and two from all your year one texts before Monday.'
There's only a groan in response to that.
'If I see unsatisfactory results, I may assign an assistant from the department to watch you. Do keep that in mind.' He mumbles another spell, and twill ropes wrap and pack the stacked texts. With another, they shrink to fit in Irene's pocket.
'Now then, as discussed during the contract negotiations, you will be working in liaison with the Department of Magical Enforcement with their cursed-artefact removal team. To make things easier, you're only taking up a weekly quota of items to render inert. Your work hours can vary upon completion of your tasks that should allow ample time to study. The lab you will be in is currently under construction. They just have a few more safety enchantments to weave in.' He scribbles something and sends the notation off. 'Also, for all the aurors know, you are a skilled curse-breaker and quite the prodigy. Let's keep it that way. Stick to the background we've agreed on.'
Irene nods and writes down any important notes. With a bow and another, 'thanks, looking forward to working with you,' she stands and heads for the door. She has to return home and open the antiques store for the evening.
Fontius escorts her to the door. 'Here.' He hands her a parchment. 'We discussed most of these spells yesterday, but I'd like for you to be familiar with these before Monday. Accidents are not uncommon in our department.' He gives her a pat on the back and Irene's out the door within seconds.
The streets of London aren't as heavily trafficked as she remembers. A lasting impact from the air raids. Despite the fact it's the afternoon, and the Germans prefer their attacks in the evenings and nights, it doesn't diminish the fear. Irene wonders if she still had someone to lose, would she be the same?
Her key clicks open the lock as it turns. The glass panelled window reads, 'An's Antiques.' Their store is a small corner shop, a meagre 287 square meters made smaller through the shelves that line the walls in fine china and the ornate floor pieces that create and elaborate maze throughout the shop. It smells of old wood and dust. Irene carefully manoeuvres herself to the back to open the till and fill it with cash.
It's twelve in the afternoon, but she's only seen about a handful of patrons walk by. She sighs but opens her doors, anyway. Irene places the sign out with a mention of a sale on larger pieces.
An hour passes, and a single soul hasn't entered.
Irene heads to the back and grabs a feather duster. In reality, there's nothing to clean, but it creates busy work, so she continues. Like this, manning the store isn't hard. She's already worked in a number of magical ways she could make it even easier. Her palm smooths over the greyed wand that's in her pocket. Featherweight charms, locking charms, and shrinking spells. All of them would supply relief to her everyday toiling.
Without her mom, Irene realises how difficult it is to move items about the floor. Sometimes she wonders how her mother managed when she was too young to assist. She pictures her wild blonde hair piled atop her head with sweat dripping down her forehead, cursing up a storm as she drags a chest to the back storage. Like this, it's like her mother never left—a piece of her stored in every inch of this very place.
Irene smiles and continues her busy work.
The room's spinning. Irene tilts her head and feels the wavering light-headedness that always accompanies this fatigue. She's about two and a half weeks into the job at this point. One day under the weather is predictable when she's juggling two jobs, especially when one of them has landed her in cursed-artefact removal. God, she could do without the acid reflux that results from absorbing magic with mal intent.
'Hill,' Prewett says, 'Are you alright?'
He's sitting across from her, a sandwich in one hand and a cup of soup in the other. His bright red hair settles in soft curls that frame his freckled face and emphasize his intelligent green eyes. 'Evan' he tells her to call him but she's not there yet. Even if he's the only other member of the unspeakables that is somewhat within her age—he's twenty from what she knows—and Irene finds it easier to talk with him than the other more distinguished members. Though his genius level intellect sometimes leaves her confused as to what's going on inside his head.
Her vision wavers. Right. She should eat. That'll make the exhaustion ebb. Irene reaches into her own paper bag and pulls out a sandwich of her own—cheese, ham, and vegetables atop brioche. At least she's eating better with the salary from the Ministry. Who would have thought they paid so well?
'I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all.' She smiles, although strained.
In Prewett's face, something passes that Irene's never seen before. She ignores it. Just one more cursed item and she can go home.
Dwindling profits. A month has passed since she woke up, and they're at an all-time low. She's just breaking even. Irene sighs into her hands. Her fingers rake through her tangled hair. The low light of the desk's lamp illuminates the store's ledger in a dim yellow. If things continue at this pace, her job at the Ministry will have to supplement the costs of maintaining the store. She looks up and stares at the bag of potatoes that sits on the counter. God. What if she has to close the store?
Her throat constricts. She can't breathe.
'Whatever happens, we'll get through this. There's always a way.'
Irene shakes her head. There's no 'we' anymore, but she can handle this. Keep the store and manage the job at the Ministry.
She crafts a new sales strategy late into the night.
'—rene…Irene.'
A hand grips and shakes her shoulder. Irene blinks out the fog from her eyes. Dazed, she can't seem to remember where she is. However, the sight of freckles upon pale skin gives her a good guess.
'Evan,' Irene says and frowns. Her voice sounds weak and fragile.
'You passed out.' He frowns and helps her sit up.
The way his brows are in a knot is perplexing. It almost makes her think she's still passed out. Evan is rarely expressive, much too calm and aloof to show anything. She must have messed up on this one. Irene glances at the artefact table. The 'sorry' slips out before she can stop herself.
The frown on Evan's face deepens. 'The rate is exponential rather than linear,' he mumbles incoherently.
Irene looks at him, confused. Maybe she hit something on her way down. Evan conjures a glass of water for her and tells her to drink. She does so without complaint.
'You're overworked,' he states with a detached finality to it.
'No, I'm—'
'Is it the coursework? Or the artefacts?' Evan tilts his head.
Irene shakes her head. 'It's fine. I'm just not used to working here. This'll work itself out once I get into a pattern.'
'No, it won't,' and there it is again, that tone of finality. 'Friday, February the twenty-seventh. Monday, March the ninth. Wednesday, March the eighteenth. Monday, March the twenty-third. Thursday, March the twenty-sixth. And Monday, March the thirtieth. You're already in a pattern. One that's exponentially rising.'
'What are you—'
'Friday, February the twenty-seventh you came in with a sickly pallor. Monday, March the ninth, you had dark circles and unfocused eyes. Wednesday, March the eighteenth you were stumbling around. Monday, March—'
'Alright, alright.' She waves her hands to stop him and scoots away. 'I get it. You've been watching me like some test subject.' There's a fond chuckle at the end of her words.
He sighs. 'No. I'm concerned.'
Irene gets to her feet, assisted by placing a hand on the table to her side. The inert cursed bracelet is sitting on the tray where she left it, no longer able to thrall whoever places it upon their wrist. 'Well' she starts defensively, then sags with fatigue.
'I'm taking the rest of the day off,' Evan says as he stands up and leaves the room.
The door closes with a soft squeak.
Irene's perhaps still dazed, because she's not entirely sure if that just happened. He says he's concerned, then disappears. She shrugs it off and grabs her robes from the hangar to leave the testing room.
Walking through the department, she worries at her lips. This isn't the first time she's come into work exhausted, but it's certainly the first time she's fainted. She didn't even know she could faint, always thought that only people with health concerns had that problem. Irene's always been in tiptop shape. She's the first to finish a race, the longest lasting for push-ups and sit-ups. What's going on? Is she really overworking herself like Evan declared? She enters the staff room to grab her bag.
If she is, then what does that mean for the store?
It's when she's just about to leave that Evan meets with her again. 'Fontius is giving you two-days off,' he says and opens the door for her.
Irene exits and heads for the floo. 'I can't just take off whenever. I need the money.' She frowns.
'It's paid sick-leave Irene.'
He follows after, even when she throws powder in the flames and shouts, 'Atrium.'
She watches him dubiously, in a direct path for the toilet exits. 'Why are you following me? Don't you have a floo in your home?' They round the corner, and as expected, the lines to leave for muggle London are short in the evening.
'I will observe your daily schedule and decide what to clear from it.'
Irene's footsteps slow to a stop, next in line to open the stall. 'You're going to what?'
The front patron steps through the threshold. 'Fix your fatigue,' his tone is chipper, excited. He gestures for her to hurry on.
Irene's pushed through the doors and into the public stalls of muggle London by a particularly impatient witch. What?
She exits the women's bathroom with her brows in a knot. A strongly worded argument's brewing in her head. Outside, Prewett's leaning against a stone pillar, his ankles crossed, and hands in his pockets. She's surprised to see that he's transfigured his clothes into a casual muggle suit—brown twill and blue cotton. He's looking about with curious, wandering eyes.
'Shall we go?' Evan offers his elbow.
Irene bites back a whine and threads her hand through.
It's a quiet stroll back to An's Antiques, made so by Irene's unwillingness to speak and Evan's contentedness to enjoy the sights. The spring wind is chilly at this time of the year. She pulls her jacket tighter to her body and feels it blow through her still. It must be the exhaustion.
She jingles her pockets for her keys as they arrive at the step of her family's store.
It's a mechanical process to open the shop. The bell rings and Irene turns on the lights. She sets her things in the back, opens the till, and places the cash and change in. After propping the door open and setting out the sign, she makes to do any busy work she hasn't managed to finish the day before. When everything's dusted, swept, or wiped, Irene pulls out her texts and begins reading while manning the checkout. There are seven more hours in the day to make some money, no matter how little.
'I see the problem.'
Irene startles, forgetting Evan is still in her odd company.
He's sitting on the spare stool near the counter, observing her with folded arms. 'You have two sources of employment while retaining your status as a full-time student.' With a nod to himself, he pops up off the chair and begins weaving through the store as if he's cataloguing every fixture and antique.
She swallows.
'There aren't many customers, are there?' Evans says.
'That's due to the war. Things will pick back up after—'1945 ends '—a few years.' Irene closes her charms text.
Evan hums and picks up a jade sculpture of a dragon and its egg. 'And what will you do during school?' He rotates it in his palm.
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her gaze hits the old mahogany countertop. Thin and deep scratches and dings cover the expanse of it. Irene's never really thought about that. Waking in the hospital, she'd taken things day by day. It's only recently that she's begun to plan about a week in advance.
'I'll…I'll hire an employee to mind the store while I'm away,' she says stiffly.
'So, you want to keep this shop?' Evan asks. His eyes are focused on the various novelties that lie scattered about in the front.
'I….' Yes. She wants to claim the word. Speak it. Mean it. But her throat closes, willing away its force. And she realises maybe behind conscious thought, she's always known where this would lead, where this would end. 'I—' Irene's voice is reedy with desperation.
Evan's never been great with others. His mother had said that was the reason he did not make Head Boy his seventh year. That was true, of course. But it's never been something of consequence. Social inadequacies have never prevented him from achieving what he desired. Although at times like these, Evan wishes he had a little more insight into another's mind.
Rays of evening yellow peek through the scratched glass pane. The wooden bench creaks and squeals beneath their weight as Evan sits only inches away from the demure Irene. When he looks about, lustreless brown shelving housing fine china, gemstone sculptures, and carved furniture fill his view. His hands stretch and flex in the scant rays of ochre that filter into the space. It's dark in the store despite the vast windows and various hanging lights. Dust and cobwebs sit in tight crevasses too tricky to reach. It's a cramped store, exacerbated by the meagre square meters and cluttered store inventory. But past its age and wear, he sees the effort put in—through the custom displays and hand-painted signs—and surely it wasn't only Irene who built this and it's easy to understand why she wouldn't want to let go of such a thing.
Evan has had his suspicions for a while now. What guardian allows their child to work with volatile and dangerous cursed artefacts? He'd thought perhaps her parents were absent, neglectful. But now, it's crushingly and illuminatingly clear.
Evan listens to the hitches in Irene's breathing calm to an easy hiss—her sobs receding. He glances at her, sees the sorrow that carves itself into her cavernous eyes, and turns back to the empty shop. 'When you're here, what do you think of?' he asks.
'…My mother,' Irene says.
He hums trying to imagine a woman similar to Irene shuffling about the store, sweeping, dusting, and organising the floor. He thinks that Irene must do the same, must relive the memories day after day, alone. The past is ever present here. 'That seems a bit lonely.'
'It's not…. It's not that bad,' she says, but it doesn't feel all that convincing.
His hum is an echo of his earlier one. 'Perhaps.' But he can't imagine it's all that easy either. His shoulder brushes against hers as he leans back against the wall. It's strange. Evan's never minded silence, but the air here almost feels suffocating in its quiet.
'It really isn't,' she whispers. 'Here, sometimes it feels like she's still with me.'
It occurs to him then—and it's no surprise that he's slow to the point—why the shop feels bereft, barren despite the clutter. It's the grief that chills the vibrant paints, that weighs the air, and that darkens the sunlit shop.
And it's grief that leaves Irene sunken and solemn, bleak.
'Do you love your magic?' Evan asks.
'What?' Irene's taken aback by his seemingly random question.
He cocks his head.
'I mean, yes?'
'Did you know when a witch or wizard grieves, sometimes our magic will leak out or lash out? It searches and seeks what we miss most because, foremost, it protects us. Take a look.'
She's hesitant, not used to controlling her magic. Evan knows this but trusts her. Practice has been fairing well as of late. Within seconds, her eyes flash in that inhuman silvery glow and fade away as her perusal about the room ends.
Irene swallows.
'It's killing you. Your mourning.'
'It's killing you. This store,' goes unsaid.
Evan fingers thread together above his lap. 'Do you think you can continue like this?' he asks.
It's a sad thing to have to let go.
Seven months later….
'What's this?' Irene tilts the tiny container in her hands. It looks like a shrunken trunk, but there's something more. She tests it with short pulses of her own magic. 'Enchantments? Did you bewitch this?'
'Yes. I heard from Fontius that you are moving. Can you figure out what runes I used?' Evan cocks his head, waiting.
Ever since the Fontius—now deemed the Overlord due to his overbearing need to control everything that occurs within the Department—assigned him to her nearly four months ago her performance has improved. Who would have thought the aloof recent graduate would be great at teaching? She allows her eyes to glow for only a second. Purple symbols appear drawn in magic.
It's unmistakable. The runes…. 'You didn't.' Her fingers twitch around the tiny, invaluable item. 'This-this is too much. Do you know how much expansion-charmed trunks cost?'
'Good work.' He settles the palm of his hand on her head for two brief pats. A habit he's developed to praise her work. 'Roughly four galleons.' Evan's face transforms. It's a slow transition, lips pulling gradually upward, eyes crinkling. His bright expression shines, smile reaching ear to ear.
At times like this, Irene thinks he looks more human, personable. Most moments it's like he's constantly impersonating the Terminator—his actions being a bit slow and stilted. 'Looking less robotic, Prewett.' She nudges him. 'But truly, thank you. I don't think I'll be able to repay you, not for this or the last.' There's a shy smile on her face.
Without Evan there for her nearly five months ago, she's not sure if she'd be able to let go. After they'd talked and Irene had broken into sobs once more, he'd taken the initiative to pack up the store in the quiet of her fatigued nap—with her permission of course. He'd wrapped and shrunken every precious antique and shelf and stowed them away in a simple suitcase.
'No need. I have plenty of money,' he says flatly. She doesn't doubt it, not with him being from a well-off, pure-blood family and all. 'I also did not spend much. The trunk is a common item. I only stitched in the enchantments.'
Unspeakables. Irene shakes her head. As if such magic is easily accessible to the common witch or wizard. 'I'll take your word for it. Still, if you need anything, just ask, yeah?'
Evan nods his head back to that usual blank face. 'Fortune's blessing at Hogwarts, Irene.' He turns and walks off.
It seems the conversation's takes the shrunken trunk and shoves it into her bag. She leaves the breakroom and makes her way to Fontius's office. In the black-tiled hall, she passes a few familiar faces, waving to Croaker and Elderberry. When she arrives, she gives two knocks and enters after the lock clicks open.
'Miss Hill.' Fontius, the Overlord himself, doesn't bother to look up from his paperwork. 'I presume you've finished your work?'
'Yes, I've met my required seven artefacts.' Irene sighs. 'I believe this marks the end of your summer dictatorship. Any bitter farewells to send me away with?'
His lips perse before he sets his quill down. 'Ah, but this is only the beginning.' There's a cruel smile stretched across wrinkled features.
She shivers. Weekends and all-nighters spent hunched over a textbook with various empty bottles of Pepper-up Potion rear their ugly heads. She fiddles with her fingers. The itchiness of her palms and the upset feeling of her stomach hasn't abated since her morning shift in curse-artefact removal. Irene wonders just how she was fooled into thinking the old bat was nice.
'And as discussed, expect those packages. Weekends with the DADA professor, remember? If you feel the need to extend your services, an owl or Patronus to either Emerson or I will do.'
Fat chance, that. The extra pay is not worth the resulting heartburn. Regardless, she has something to say. 'Thanks for everything, sir.' She bows, deep and grateful, and means it.
Seven months of tortuous, hard work orchestrated by Fontius had whipped her in decent shape for Hogwarts—for her Ancient Magic. Something she didn't think feasible in this short time span. Although, technically, she's still only average in her studies—can't fix everything, right?
A slightly kinder smile replaces the previous. 'It was my pleasure, Miss Hill. I wish you luck in your studies at Hogwarts. If you need any help during the year, I'm sure Prewett wouldn't mind assisting. Now then, I believe you have yet to pack and a train to catch early morrow.'
Irene smiles back. 'Yes, sir.'
She leaves the DoM to return home for the last time.
It starts when she least expects it.
Arriving home, Irene had approached packing with an air of resolution that greatly contrasted with her decision to close her mother's antique store. Working two jobs was never feasible, and she's not sure why she'd even believed it workable.
Beginning in her mother's room, the last room down the hall, she had wasted no time. Its pink floral wallpaper and accompanying painted wood furniture sat covered in a thin layer of dust, proof of Irene's refusal to enter, and filled with memories too painful to hold on to. Without thought, she packed away various clothing items and personal effects. Her wand did the work, and her mind never allowed her focus to stray away from the process.
Irene had not shed a tear throughout the entire affair.
Then she'd moved onto her room, the bathroom, the kitchen, and finally the living space, cleaning and packing each area with a brutal efficiency. It was only upon arrival in the final room that her resolution starts to crumble.
She feels the tight clench of her throat, the spike of heat in her head, and suddenly, without warning, the tightly wound lock over her heart snaps open. It isn't nearly as disastrous or grief stricken as the first time, but all the same, she cries a sad sob with ugly sniffles and reedy whimpers. Despite this, she continues to spin her spells as clumsily executed as they are. Picture frames, folded curtains, lampshades, and other items buzz past her sometimes bumping into each other before diving into the bewitched trunk.
Irene has lived here for her entire life and until two years ago it'd been with her mother. Maybe that's what this is. A farewell to the final tethers to her life before.
It's terrifying.
A part of her knows that when she leaves, the memories of her time here will fade. It'll be gradual, like an artist removing details from a painting. The subtlest of spices missing from the time they ate freshly baked biscuits, a clarinet's tune absent from the song that played when they danced in the kitchen, or the scratch of her mother's callouses smoothed over as they hold hands walking to the market. A steady decline into obscurity, a memory still intact but faded, nonetheless.
Her heart aches, accepting the inevitability.
Irene wipes her cheeks and flicks her wrist. Her larch wand sings and pulses. Its warmth is comforting, reassuring. The records, trinket boxes, and radio player lift and float to the open trunk.
When all is packed up and cleared, Irene leaves without looking back.