When I Wake Up
Click, click, click.
The sound of heels clicking against marble floors rang through the empty halls, echoing wall to wall, and following the void-cloaked figure. They strode through the halls smoothly, as though they were floating like a ghost. The only proof of life being the sharp clicks that cut through the chilled air. A pitch-black cloak waved behind him, fabric light and smooth and undeniably unnatural.
The frigid air of mystery and sheer strangeness that emanated from them seemed to seep through the walls, leaving a permanent stain on the world that not even the darkest of magics could remove. After all, no one knew how Unspeakables truly worked. Whether they were light or dark was the eternal question asked by all who even knew of their existence. Of his existence.
Unspeakables were beings of myth, even to the wizarding world. People thought they knew about them, everyone did. But when people tried to put words to the Unspeakable’s existence, they came into the material plane as nothing more than an errant thought, then fizzled away into nothingness. Only to return when silence was all anyone knew and the sounds of the world faded once more.
The myth-like beings - presumably humans - thrived in the shadows, as though that was the only place that could truly welcome their existence. When war broke out for the second time nearly a decade prior, Unspeakables swarmed into every nook and cranny. Hidden from sight, unable to see, but able to hear all. Information was gathered, and time was lost. But time may once again be regained. A project, 267 years in the making, where time would bend to the will of humans - if they could still be called humans. Hundreds of years of research and prophecies, hundreds of years of hunting down the accursed materials that, when combined, could shatter and break the world as they knew it.
The numbers that fell together when time came, the shattered glass of time-turners littering the ground of an abandoned cellar deep in the Department of Mysteries. And six Unspeakables, awaiting the arrival of the final one.
An invisible doorway, etched into the wall with runes of forgotten magic, opened. A low hiss of air and the barely audible grating of brick on a rough floor. Dust and decay lingered in the air, a scent that made the Unspeakable’s nose wrinkle slightly in the deep void of his hood. Darkness greeted him and he gave a slight flick of his wand, a wordless Lumos lighting up at the end of his wand.
A stairway, covered in undisturbed dust. Cobbled walls with small trickles of water – from where, he could not say – and mottled green moss creeping between the cracks. He stepped into the stairway, the door shifting back into place behind him with a quiet grinding sound, infinitely loud in the silence.
Behind him, the dust remained still and undisturbed.
The passageway stretched on, downwards and spiralling, to the point where one may begin to believe that there was no end. Eventually, the echo of the Unspeakable’s footsteps grew louder, less narrow, as he stepped into a chamber. The room was lit with burning flames in braziers that lined the walls. A lowered dais in the centre of the room, shimmering with the shattered remains of time-turners. Dust and glass and metal all glinting in the firelight.
And, standing in a circle, watching as the final Unspeakable stepped through the door – the seventh – were six other Unspeakables. Each cloaked in the same pitch-black that seemed to devour the light around them. The only difference one could see between the figures being the different cuts of their cloaks. A few of them with sharp, clean patterns of the cloak’s ends. The other’s, rough and torn like the ragged flags of nations on the battlefield.
He joined his fellow Unspeakables in the circle they had formed, looking down upon the pile of shimmering enchanted dust. A wave of his wand saw the Lumos dimmed into nothingness
.
The Unspeakable to his left turned to look at him, giving him a slight nod. A wordless assurance. Barely a moment passed, unspoken words fuelling his determination to be ready. He nodded back.
From beneath their cloaks, the seven Unspeakables raised their wands, channelling their magic into the conduits of wood and myth. Soon enough, they began to chant. Archaic and ancient, the syllables spilling from the lips of the Unspeakables, writable in modern texts and lost to the waves of time. Firelight flickered from the braziers lining the walls, sputtering under the unfelt wind formed by the swirling magic.
The time-turner dust piled in the centre of the room, littered with glass and metal, picked up in the breeze, forming a maelstrom that glinted with vermillion and gold.
With a heavy swallow, the seventh Unspeakable stepped forward, into the maelstrom of glass and firelight. It cut into the void-like cloak, the strings of unnatural fabric floating down and shimmering out of existence as though they never existed, only held together by the magics interweaved with the cloak, incomplete when severed.
Shards of glass sliced through the pale skin of the seventh Unspeakable, leaving splatters of crimson blood on the now dustless floor. Every single cell in each drop, imbued with long forgotten magic.
He stood in the midst of the swirling maelstrom and lifted his wand. His wrist, arm, and shoulder moved in tandem, unnatural words spilling from his lips with the smooth flow of true fluency. The wind picked up, the fire sputtered out, and the room was cast into darkness.
The final syllable spilled from his lips and gilded light erupted from the tip of his wand. It enveloped the room with blinding light, forcing the six unharmed Unspeakables to wince and turn away, shielding their eyes with the cowls covering their features. A high, keening whine shot through the room, high enough to cause the Unspeakable’s eardrums to protest vehemently.
It left the six dazed and… Alone.
The seventh Unspeakable, gone. Left behind, only an empty circle of blood, dust, glass, and metal.
He was gone, lost to the tides of time, to fulfil a destiny not his own.
He was met with memories.
Memories of war. Of chaos, pain, and suffering. Nothing any child should have ever been witness to.
His mother’s hand clutched his own and he looked up at her with wide, ocean blue eyes. He could hear what was going on outside, but couldn’t see anything from behind the locked door. Screams and explosions echoed relentlessly. His mother’s hand tightened around his own.
Memories of the end of a war – the first war, that is. When he and his family of familiar red-heads were finally able to settle down and live a fairly normal life.
He stepped through the door, into his room for what felt like the first time in forever, even if it had only been a few weeks since they’d evacuated to one of The Order’s safehouses, for fear of an attack. It was exactly how he left it. Good.
Memories of younger siblings coming into the picture, the growing twins, a young Ron, and an even younger Ginny.
The family of nine all sat around the table, eating their breakfast. Though, Percy could argue that it was more-so a chance for everyone to talk with their mouths full and annoy the ever-loving hell out of Percival. Especially the twins, Fred and George seemed to have made an unbreakable vow to eternally get on Percy’s nerves. Still, he loved them like any older brother would.
Memories of schooling, of five years he’d long-since served, that now serve as a reminder of a time of safety.
Oliver Wood grinned brightly at Percy, holding his brand-new broom, and gushing about its ability and how good it’ll be for the game in a few weeks. Percy could only watch with vague amusement and disinterest, finding the subject of Quidditch a rather boring topic to him. He’d always been more partial to books.
Memories of a boy, a new student under his charge as Prefect. The Boy Who Lived come to die , who befriended the Unspeakable’s younger brother, Ronald.
Harry smiled at Percy softly, grateful for Percy’s kindness. Though, Percy wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Afterall, he’s only helped the boy find a classroom that he’s never been to before, something he was obligated to do as the Prefect. It was purely out of obligation, not good will. Harry ought to learn that eventually, right?
Memories of the chaos that unfolded as the years went on, until he graduated and joined the Ministry.
His first day on the job was nerve-wracking. Having the expectations of his family and the Minister himself resting upon his shoulders did not help the writhing ball of anxiety that shredded his insides to ribbons. He took a deep, slow breath, and steeled himself to move. His job won’t wait for him, after all.
Memories of screamed words, his father and mother in front of him as he seethed.
They would never understand. Never. He clearly wasn’t welcome here anymore, so he left. Something inside him trilled with superiority, the voice that had always whispered into the recesses of his mind, always told him the truth. He was never truly a Weasley, was he?
Memories of-
What is a Weasley? What does that name stand for? Research claims it’s derived from the word “weasel”, an animal known for its slippery nature and commonly used to describe sleazy people, but the Weasley family was always about integrity and bravery, right? Gryffindors for eternity.
Memories-
But what if that’s wrong?
Mem-
…
He was back.
Wasn’t he?
Percival Ignatius Weasley. Third son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, and traitor to the entire wizarding world.
He’d made many mistakes when he was young, but joining, no, siding with the ministry? Refusing to hear his family’s pleas? That may have been the worst mistake he’d ever made.
After the war came to an end, and everyone was able to begin repairing what little they had left and move on with the memories of everyone they lost close to their hearts, Percy knew he couldn’t do the same. His betrayal was simply too deep to do so, his family would likely attack him on sight, he knew it.
So, he did the next best thing. He dedicated the rest of his life to righting his wrongs, even at the risk of his own life. He left his administrative job in the Ministry, despite how far up the chain he was, and joined the Department of Mysteries. Becoming an Unspeakable was hell. From learning whole new languages and spells, to withstanding curses and mind magics for hours at a time, he learnt.
The suffering he was put through was not in vain, far from it, in fact. It was quite possibly the most worthwhile thing he’d ever done.
Because now? Well. Now he can fix everything.
Who knew that time was this malleable?
He came to slowly, the flood of memories and thoughts keeping him deep in the recesses of his consciousness for far longer than it really ought to have. The first sense that returned to him was touch. Wet grass pressing against his skin, damp and cold, was what greeted him first. Then the chill of a rainy night, post-rain, sent a harsh shiver down his prone form.
The next was hearing. He heard the slight rustle of wind in leaves, and a faint call in the distance.
Sight. His eyes cracked open slowly, and he found himself entranced with what he saw. It felt like he was looking through a pensieve, though dark and void of much light. The world around him was shrouded in darkness, but familiar. He knew, despite his internal reservations, that this was the surrounding marshland around The Burrow.
The only questions now were when and why here ?
With slow, deliberate movements, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Taking great care to ensure that the unfamiliar- yet, oh so familiar – limbs of his didn’t fail on him. A body that didn’t quite feel like his greeted him, almost like there was another skin layered atop his, and bones swapped intermittently. A body that his mind knew but had long since left behind, familiarising itself with the war-torn and eternally aching vessel Percy had resided in for the last decade.
Looking around, he spotted a familiar wand in the grass to his right, the same one he used as an Unspeakable. His wand from ages 11 to 21, which had carried him through Hogwarts and beyond, had been broken in the last year of the war in an accident involving Death Eaters in the Ministry. After joining the Department of Mysteries, however, he was given a special wand that was specifically created for Unspeakables. Capable of handling spells of much higher calibre than most wands, his old wand likely would’ve discharged the magic needed for a normal Unspeakable spell back at him and severely injured him if he’d tried.
Regardless of that, he was a little confused as to how the wand followed him back in all its African Blackwood and Antipodean Opaleye scale core glory but he wouldn’t dwell on it (for now). He picked the wand up and, with a quick flick of it and an internal incantation, cast a quick time checking spell.
00:34:74 - 1st September, 1991
It was odd. He blinked at the spell for a moment, before sighing softly and lowering his wand, the spell dissipating. He was back.
The ritual worked.
Previously 29 year old Unspeakable, now 15 year old 4th year Hogwarts student. And he knew, through the research conducted amidst his fellow Unspeakables and intuition, that there was no going back now.