Assistance
Severus is annoyed. He’s pretty sure the castle is too due to its inability to give full answers that it’s residents can actually understand.
Severus just wants his damned ingredients and the castle impatiently insists that his office and store room is where they’ll be. He’ll admit to a bit of sulking when he brushes his fingers against the door handle and still is shown exactly that. His office door.
”Am I really going to have to order these in?” He demands moodily, reaching for the handle again and this time, the door creaks with what might be exasperation, then gives him a new image: Jacklyn. He still frowns, though, at the thought of begging for help from a (sort of) student, then sucks in his pride and heads for the Hufflepuff corridor.
Professor Snape is waiting outside the Hufflepuff common room in the morning. I eye him, then the painting across from the hidden door I’d just exited, then him again. “If you’re waiting for entry, you’ll be waiting a long while,” I warn. “Easier to just tickle the pear, praise the house elves for their generous hard work and walk out with a week’s worth of food.”
“The Headmaster sends his apologies,” Snape says grumpily, and still manages to sound sincere. He also sounds a bit surprised. “I’m not certain anyone at the table has ever lectured a headmaster before, nor felt the need to, but there’s no ill will or punishments there, from anyone.”
I doubt Penumbra is included in that statement, but that will be Penumbra’s problem and therefore Dumbledore’s. But it’s not Snape’s, so I don’t automatically snap back; there’s no point. And still...
“Good to know,” I mutter, turning for the stairs, unsurprised when he falls into step beside me. “Is there a reason he’s not telling me that himself? An apology only means half as much if someone else is delivering it," I point out. "And don't think I somehow missed that my self defense is apparently getting rewarded by a lack of punishment, like I'm some sort of genuine, ignorant child," I mutter, annoyed, and he has the good sense to wince at the implication.
“He’s gone to the ministry,” Snape says bluntly. “And... I require some assistance. If possible.”
I actually stumble with surprise because there's nothing about Snape that suggests he asks for help. Ever. So I just stare with exaggerated, teasing shock because he is actually asking. He rolls his eyes, as if he’s hearing my inner train of thought.
“I’ll help if I can?” I offer. "But first? Food." Curious as I am now, though, I’m soon munching on an egg salad and avocado sandwich half wrapped in a napkin and sipping on a large cup of orange-pumpkin juice as I follow him through the empty halls.
“There’s a few ingredients for a potion recipe that I’m missing,” he finally says when we’re nearly at the dungeon rooms. “And when I've... inquired with the castle," he continues, pulling a face that's half exasperation and half frustration, "all it shows me is my own office door. I thought perhaps you might decipher its meaning differently, because I can't locate any of them in there."
I pause with surprise. “.....Ohhhh," I murmur quietly, nodding. It's no wonder he's having trouble; my personal stock was (and no doubt still is) absurdly extensive and I disliked running out of anything. (In other words, as Wyn used to tease, my dragon instincts began hoarding at a very, very young age.) (That hasn't changed, even a little.)
Snape gives me a curious glance as we reach the potions classroom. “I assumed you’d know where to find them, if not. I can order them fresh, of course, but they’d be coming from Japan and won’t be here for a month, at least. The Ministry's customs department is notoriously lazy.”
“Fairly sure that’s a universal trait of all customs departments, everywhere, in any reality," I muse. "Which ingredients do you still need?” I ask, then take a large bite of sandwich hoping to hide my nervous excitement.
“Fauna flame, oni powder and three-tail foxglove. Yellow or purple, preferably.”
Oh. I actually feel my eyebrows reaching for my hairline.
“I hope you need them for the foxfire antidote and not the poison,” I remark, rudely talking with my mouth full but half-covering my mouth with my wrist. “You know my stance on killing.”
“Obviously,” he huffs, reaching for his office door.
“Nuh-uh. Don’t,” I instruct, shaking my head and he gives me a narrowed eye, then a curiously lifted eyebrow when I wave him back. And then it's perplexed expectation that edges confused affront when I hand him my juice, needing at least one hand free. I step forward to the wall lantern to the right of the door, stretching onto my toes (so weird to be this short again) to open the small, hinged, glass window housing the flame, then reach into the false-flame entirely, ignoring Snape’s half-choked sound of protest before he realizes I'm suffering no actual harm.
The switch is actually a small ring hidden in the flame, easily pulled upward and released and I wait for the expected ‘clunk-CLANK of the hidden contraption rearranging things in Snape’s office, by the sound of it while Snape himself just gives the door itself a weird look of alarm. When all the sound ceases, I open the door, then head nod Snape in while I take my juice back.
Snape's eyes go wide with surprise when he finds his office furniture unchanged while the center section of the floor has dropped into a steep, circular spiral staircase leading down into a faintly musty-smelling well of spooky darkness.
“They’d probably be in the old apartment lab,” I explain, then pop the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth. I wasn’t sure I’d have a good reason (or enough courage) to come down here at all but conjure up a fire fluff, a madly spinning ball of gentle flame twice the size of a tennis ball that lights candles, eats cobwebs and dust but leaves everything else well enough alone and I toss it down the hole, hearing a near-silent, excitable ‘weeeeeee!’ fading down and away while Snape peers cautiously over the unguarded edge to see how far down the fluff goes. He looks nervous when he sees it’s at least sixty feet and I smirk, chugging the last of my juice, then spell the cup and napkin back to the kitchens with a happy thank you note for the elves, then send another fire fluff down along the stairs themselves to light the inset wall lanterns and clear out the walking space.
Now? It’s time for fun. To the immediate left of the office door, there’s a small, stone shelf holding yet more books, none in English, and from beneath it, hidden in a flat slit in the wall, I pull out two lightweight, flat metal slabs that grow according to who holds it. Snape’s slab doubles in size, as does the size of his eyes when I stomp down hard on the topmost step, snapping the stairs diagonally into smooth, waxed stone. I grin at him and must look devilish when he takes a cautious step back, openly wary.
“Be brave, Professor,” I advise, smirking and dropping my sled onto the top edge, then head-nod to the one he suddenly looks nervous to even be holding. “I promise, it won’t let you lose your balance or fall off.” Then I step onto my own, adjust my feet and tip forward.
Holy.
Happy.
Hellfire.
I’d forgotten just how much fun it was and I’m giggling like a dizzy, ticklish toddler by the time I reach the bottom and finally slide to a stop, then race back to peek up at Snape's face looking amazed, way waaaay up there.
“You only live once!” I holler up encouragingly (though I’ve proven that’s not totally true).... then add, laughing, “I promise I’ll never tell anyone you had fun!”
Then I step back and wait for the faint sound of his sled being set... and smirk gleefully at the allllmost silent sound of his choked-off laughter. I smooth my expression and pretend not to see his reluctant smile by the time he dizzily reaches the bottom and shrug at his (totally fake) scowl as he steps off his sled.
“The stairs would have worked just as well,” he grumbles his (still totally fake) annoyance, then peers around interestedly.
I turn and suck in a slow, shaky breath. As expected, the fire fluff had relit all the candles, torches and lanterns and what was once bare, boring gray stone is now merrily lit with multiple colors, the lantern's stained glass ever-changing, like a kaleidoscope, showing off the main foyer and three separate doorways- left, right and center. The two right-hand doorways remain dark and unneeded and I head to the left toward my personal apartments, ignoring the occasional giggle from beneath the swaths of gray and black fabric strategically set between lanterns and tastefully hiding the few paintings available. Snape follows at my heels, a bit slower as he takes it all in, amazed.
“Does anyone else know this is down here?” He finally asks, further back than I’d thought and enough to make his voice echo oddly.
"The house elves, likely, even if they can't get in. And a few of the older painting shades, probably,” I add, finally looking back to see him squinting into the small, unlit store room I’d passed up. “The castle... this is a part of it, obviously. But personal chambers, open or hidden, are considered private property. One would need a life and death reason to discover the entrance, let alone actually enter without permission. The castle uses its own judgement on that, in case in the future you’ve got a life and death reason to need something from down here and I’m not available.”
The arched entry doors on the right side of the hallway are shimmering with a lockout spell and still dark within, which is just as well; there's too many memories there for me to deal with, at least for today. The next room on the left is my old bedroom, as well as a bathroom, large and elaborate and tasteful, with the huge, vaulted glass ceiling over both showing the watery beauty of the lake, the summer sun now sparkling through to show off tiny fish and mostly hidden mer-folk. The squid, appearing small from so deep, is doing long, lazy laps from the castle shore to the village shore, snatching up the occasional fish to snack on as it goes.
I let Snape gawp for a minute (because the view is amazing), then retreat to the hall and head into the final room that opens into the enormous laboratory, easily twice the size of the potions classroom. The vaulted ceiling in here is crammed with a wide range of mirrors, slightly soot-smudged and dirty with age, each showing a different scene, areas of the castle largely ignored, but more like a security room of a high-tech building. Magical cameras everywhere, hidden in the castle’s glass and mirrors and occasionally within false flames or the helmets of armored statues.
“How—“ Snape asks, staring up in awe.
“Paranoid people like to spy,” I shrug, but don't mention Slytherin's paranoia, specifically. I motion him to the left wall and cross to the lone cabinet settled there, then pull the twin doors open and let them fold back to the side, showing a single set of shelves filled with vials, boxes and jars, but for a sturdy brass ring in the center slot.
“Alright... this is the full stock, but for quicker searches in the future, simply keep the ingredients needed in the front of your thoughts, then open. Live ingredients are generally near the bottom in micro-stasis slots for extended preservation. Direct poisons will be near the top and can’t be removed by anyone under seventeen years unless they're staff; everything else should be mostly alphabetical by common name. For small, takeaway amounts, the bottom drawer is supplied with jars, phials, boxes, sheets of waxed velum and variable-sized satchels.”
After a firm, quick tug and twist of the ring to unlock the full set, I stand back and away to let the next set of shelves out, these shifting higher to settle above the others, then the next set pops forward, the same, higher still and then again for a towering fourth tier. The next shelves begin the full spread, popping out and shuffling to the wardrobe’s right to repeat the four-tier process, then left for the next set. It’s a bit like watching a carnival car spilling out dozens of clowns in rapid speed.
It takes a full minute before it’s fully open for perusal when the end of the grind-clicking mechanism folds out from above the shelves drop-flopping open to reveal a tall set of stair-ladder steps, lined with easy handrails and wheeled on the bottom for easier use. Finally, it’s silent and where there’d been only blank walls and inset bookshelves, now there’s stock shelves quadruple the size of the school’s potions stock.
“Whatever catches your eye, help yourself,” I offer, waving a lazy hand. “But keep an eye out for... um... illegal ingredients? Or ministry-regulated? I'm assuming they regulate some things? They were legal when they were placed in there, but I’d rather toss them or have them weighed, sorted and locked away so no one who manages to accidentally trip in here someday can cause mischief with them.”
To my personal amusement, Snape now looks like a grumpy kid on Boxing Day, wide-eyed and radiating excitement. “There’s some kind of advanced preservation charm on the wardrobe, isn’t there?” He rasps, eyes darting over— well, everything. I hum acknowledgement and back away toward the closer of the lab's two desks, flitting curiously through the papers on the top, barely recognizing the handwriting as my own-- plus a to-do list of Wyn's and a list of talking points (for Ric) for a gathering of some kind to discuss ethics and a mercy act to bring to the newly-forming Order of Lawful Magik, eventually renamed as the Ministry of Magic. (I'm surprised Wyn let any of the founders down here after my death, all things considered.)
The top desk drawer is equally cluttered with a stoppered bottle of self-replenishing shorthand ink that I happily pocket, a pair of rare dragon-feather quills that are likely worth a small fortune since feathered dragons have since become extinct. There’s odd bits of this and that, plus a tiny stone that sparks the 'just happened' sense memory of holding hands with Wyn, a pebble between our two palms to infuse the moments of giggling under the sun while we danced over the surface of the lake, neatly skirting the equally playful mer-children beneath the surface intent on squirting us and launching tiny fish and frogs into our hair.
I leave the pebble and wipe my damp eyes, smiling sadly, then pluck up a sliver of black marble beside it— a sliver of the castle’s cornerstone, now forgotten and unseen behind thick weeds but still bearing two sets of tiny handprints on each of it’s cornered sides. It was a good year and a half before the last of the tower shingles were added and the doors finally opened wide for its first students. I tuck the sliver into my pocket and try to ignore the excited muttering coming from the shelves.
Hilariously, Snape is almost dancing in place on the rolling ladder as he fills his robe pockets and I turn away before he can spot me snickering at him. Off to the side and across the room, the second wood and iron door to the lab is cracked open but dark beyond, the fire fluff having rightfully skipped those abandoned rooms.
I’m torn. I’m torn because my feet keep heading there and my heart already feels too bruised to handle whatever memories I might find. What had Wyn's life been like after I was gone? Did he ever return here? He’d wanted to know the muggle world better; had he gone to explore and simply stayed away? (Gods know, I would have.)
The Grey Lady had been at his deathbed, though. Had that been here? Something deep in my heart tugs when I lay my hand on that cool, familiar door handle, then it releases with a sigh when I press the door firmly shut.
I may be part Gryffindor, but I’m not feeling that brave today.
***
“—amazingly crafted,” Snape says again as we wind our long way back up the stairs, his voice still all muted excitement when he finally asks. “Is there another like it?”
“Hmmm.... possibly?” It’s definitely possible because the second, matching cabinet was nearly completed when last I saw it. “I can’t tell you who made it, or where one might be found, but I can draw up some excellent instructions and the spellworks needed if you’d like to find a good craftsman to build you one. Or, you can have that one, I suppose. It’s just sitting down there, useless as it is.”
“I couldn’t possibly—“ he mutters, but the half-dreamy sparkle in his eye says otherwise and I doubt he’d let it go to waste.
I roll my eyes and smirk as we finally round the topmost curve of the steps. “Keep telling yourself that, Professor,” I huff teasingly as we step off the stairs to the office while the floor reverts to being a full floor again.
“There you are!” McGonagall squawks as she appears in the office doorway, eyes wide behind her spectacles and looking a bit out of breath. Then she's squinting around Snape’s office suspiciously. “I just checked in here!” She insists, and I shrug in a way that probably looks careless or clueless but really means ‘you didn’t see us, but we were almost in here’.
“What’s happened?” Snape demands, emptying jar after jar after box after satchel from his robe pockets. (I suspect half his pockets have been charmed to fit damn-near everything, like some magical doomsday prepper.)
McGonagall stiffens unhappily, gaze snapping between the two of us. “Dorian Penumbra happened,” she grouses. “Ran off to the Ministry to tell them about the mad witch being sorted in with the first years next week. Dumbledore’s returning with at least one Auror and someone from the Department of Mysteries to investigate our ‘supposed fatemaker’.”
“Lovely,” I sigh. “I can’t be the first so-called fatemaker on record, surely?” Can I? Does anyone even remember fatemakers after their tasks are finished? I really don’t know, honestly, since I usually lost the knowledge of even being a fatemaker or died near the end of the task and therefore sent on to my next life. There were a few exceptions, but in those, fate worked it out so I could at least see my efforts and sacrifice hadn't been for nothing.
McGonagall harrumphs her opinion. “Merlin only knows. Regardless, I think they intend to investigate and record you now, however that works out. So, best keep you out in the open, even if you are mostly a secret.” She nods smartly and marches for the door, a newly-grumpy Snape on her heels now throwing a half-longing look back at the pile of ingredients he's abandoning.
I follow after them, brushing my hand along the wall, suddenly curious. I’m not sure what expression I’m wearing, but it must be something interesting because a second later, both professors are following suit and we all see, now striding through the main gates, a somewhat smug-looking Dumbledore, a twitchy-looking, nervous blond man in boring robes who’s looking up at the castle with no small amount of trepidation. But hobbling along behind them both is a tall, barrel-chested, somewhat scrappy-looking man with a weathered and scarred face and a strange, electric blue eyepiece strapped to his head (that seems to be spinning madly in order to glare suspiciously at everything all at once,) and a bold, determined stride despite the bulky crutch and his peg leg. He looks utterly bizarre and yet someone I know I’ll appreciate meeting.
“Oh no,” McGonagall sighs out, exasperated and suddenly a bit weary-sounding. “Of course they’d send MadEye.”
I snort my amusement, grinning wide. “MadEye?” Another peek and I can easily see why. “I like him already,” I declare, still grinning, then hurry for the door with two newly worried professors on my heels.
***
It seems I wasn’t quite on point with my impression of the Department of Mysteries ‘investigator’ because it’s apparently mostly Mad-Eye he’s twitchy about. On the stairs in front of the grand entry and facing only me, the stuffy, bedraggled man looks distinctly unimpressed, extensively snooty and bored, like he’s waiting for me to do something that makes his trip here actually worth his while. That’s fine, though, since I’m equally bored and unimpressed with him.
At first glance, it’s something of a mystery that the man is allowed to investigate anything. Then, MadEye gets me in his sights.
“Ohhhhh ho ho ho!!” The Auror exclaims, but low and cautious-sounding as he hobbles forward, his eye piece spinning crazily while his body’s in motion, but pins me with an almost unnerving, electric blue stare when he finally halts in front of me and gives us both a chance to size up the other, up close.
His magical signature is amazing. Everything on or near him is personalized to him, specifically, even his eye piece. His genetics are equally unique because he’s got a faint bit of everything in him, perhaps because of extensive use of certain tools or overexposure to certain creatures, but regardless, he’s as mixed a bag of magical nuts as I am, just on a diluted scale.
“Your genetic magical signature is fascinating,” I say bluntly, tilting my head up and a bit to the side to see the smidge of surprise register mildly on a psychic scale, much like my own, and it’s no wonder he’s an Auror because he's perfect for it. “It’s—“
“Ha!” He grumbles, looking grumpy but 'feels' more amused than anything, leaning heavier on his crutch to pull out his wand and wave a minor seeking spell down at me, though it seems he’s mostly seeking ill-will. I grin back, highly tempted to retaliate.
“I eat as little meat as possible; I’m not opposed to the taste, but can’t promote the loss of a live animal for the sake of a recipe." He blinks at me with his one remaining eyebrow dancing with suspicion. "Your spell won’t find much,” I explain, shrugging another smile.
“You can see magic, then” he announces and sounds unsurprised, somehow. But now the Mystery Department guy perks up and rushes excitedly forward.
Without looking with anything more than his crazy eye, Moody shoots a lazy spell over his shoulder in the Mystery guy’s direction who then freezes with a squeaky whine before toppling sideways like a tipped statue, perfectly posed as he’d been when he’d been standing then groans his annoyance.
“So can you,” I counter, impressed. "You might be the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” I announce with a smiling nod, fingers laced at my waist rather than attempting a shake of his hand. “Jacklyn Devons, temporary student and recently labeled fatemaker. How do you do?”
He huffs, his fuzzy eyebrow dancing a bit again before he nods back. “Alastair Moody; they call me MadEye, Auror of the Ministry of Magic. So, fatemaker, eh?”
“Technically, more of a fate assister, or a fate fixer, but those just don’t roll off the tongue the same way,” I half-complain with a shrug.
Moody’s lips twitch when he grunts in agreement. “What are you here to fix, then?”
“I’m not sure yet, honestly. If I’m lucky, it’ll be something simple,” I say dryly and he barks a laugh and I offer a wry smirk in return. (We're both more or less in the same profession, really.)
“Are ya ever that lucky?” He demands.
I snort in response and he jerks a nod back, his false eye dropping it’s gaze down to my chest while his eyebrow dances again.
“Hey!” I snap, crossing my arms and narrowing my eyes. “I’m in the body of a twelve year old,” I huff. “And you haven’t even bought me dinner yet!”
The man jerks back at that, looking more nervous than affronted until my lips twitch helplessly upward to a grin and then he outright glares. “Ha- ha- haaaah,” he huffs, wand rising and pointing at my breastbone. “You’ve the same scar Dumbledore has, aye?” He aims his wand at his own chest and taps it in time with his own pulse. Ahhhh, right.
“Possessed by the same demon, yes. It leaves a mark few can see.”
“Well, I see more than most,” he huffs. "As can you, if yer lookin for it." (True, which is why I don't look without a damn good reason.)
“Pvvsszzt?” The frozen man on the castle steps demands, eyes straining to see us both while we converse (more or less) over his frozen head.
“Yes, possessed. Fate punched me into this reality and a demon latched on before I made it all the way through,” I answer him, frowning and leaning in so he can see me better. "I’m surprised you hadn’t picked that up the second you began judging me on my appearance alone," I comment blandly. "It’s possible you need a bit more experience before you’re ready for field work,” I add, kind enough to be only half as patronizing as his first expression toward me was. The frozen man growls something but both McGonagall and Snape smirk while Dumbledore coughs politely in a way that says ‘behave please?’.
“Perhaps we should all have a seat for this future discussion,” Dumbledore suggests (and it's now I see that odd discordance in his aura is all but gone today), and waves us onward, the frozen official rising and hovering along behind him as he leads the way in. McGonagall follows in his wake and I in hers with Snape and Moody bringing up the rear.
***
I’m surprised to find us all in Dumbledore’s office with the gossiping painting shades, but... well no, actually. The 'painting' of the four founders is here too, though I doubt they’ll have much to say, even if they are immune to their own secret-keeping, history-hiding spell (of sheer stupidity). I doubt they'd want the Ministry involved if there's even the tiniest chance their 'real' status is discovered.
Rupert Rumens, Mystery Dept official, is soon unfrozen and far more polite in his opening questions than his earlier attitude suggested he’d be, marking down name, birthdate and all official notes that will no doubt be mysteriously lost, but balks on a few of my answers, obviously confused.
“American?” He repeats, expression baffled. His quill is frozen over his paper, ink threatening to drip down and blot out a few answers on his form.
“Yes.”
“But you’re in Britain,” he points out.
“Yes? I’m aware,” I answer, nodding. What's the hangup?
“And you sound British.”
I suck in what’s hopefully a patient breath and simply blink at him before I reply. “If Fate had dropped me in Germany, I’d sound German instead.”
“.....”
“.......”
“Allllriiiight,” he finally says under his breath, bending over his form again and I shrug my confusion at the others. “Aaaand what brought you to Britain, then?” He asks, expression as polite as possible. Like he works in the customs department and only here to officially get my paperwork sorted.
I blink a little more, lips pursed. “Fate.”
This time, McGonagall has a small coughing fit and excuses herself to the window to use her handkerchief to wipe her eyes and cover her slight grin.
Rumens ignores her, frowning at me again. “Fate,” he repeats, slower, then writes that down, eyebrows bunched together like he’s feeling a little sorry for me, lost traveler that I must be. If I couldn’t see his magical signature, I’d maybe check that he hasn’t been hit with a confounding hex, but no— it’s just him.
“And... how long have you been in Britain then, and how long will your stay here be?” He asks next, still polite as anything and McGonagall's next coughing fit can't hide her laugh while Snape smirks, Dumbledore bites his inner cheek hard enough for me to worry he’ll bite right through and MadEye rolls both his eyes so hard, I can feel the strain myself. Nearly all of the paintings snicker and I'm pretty sure it's not aimed at me. I don’t supply an answer until Fawkes lets out a low, soft crooning sound that’s nothing short of sympathetic.
Well, maybe it’s time to embrace the hilarity.
“Since Fate sent me here for my assignment,” I supply dryly. “I’m a multi-national citizen as well as multi-magical, multilingual and multi-time lineal. I speak every language, in every accent that’s needed for my given, working assignment. I can also list off the recipe for any and all charms, hexes, curses, potions and salves that I’ve used or encountered in my many timelines and in 14 of my lives, have joined the art of muggle healing with emphasis on brain, spine and heart surgery since all are considered the most challenging. After my origin, I’ve been a professor myself six times, twice at Cambridge, three times at Harvard, and once at MIT. I've also been a researcher, an astronaut, a biologist, a geneticist, a holistic herbalist, a midwife, a spy, and roughly eight hundred other professions, plus a black belt in every martial art discipline I've ever encountered in the multidimensional spacetime spectrum. Would you like my entire résumé, or should we simply finish this interview off so I can talk to the Auror over there who’s likely got far more pressing questions?”
The man blinks a few times more, eyes scanning his ink-splattered form in his lap, then eyes me again. “And we’re expected to believe all that?” He finally asks, but again gently, like he's sure he's only humoring the poor, confused and lost little girl. I tick my eyes over to Dumbledore and back, then wave at Rumen's form in a ‘carry on’ sort of way.
“Once again,” he repeats, now giving me an impatient sort of look, “how long have you been living in Britain?”
“Approximately 11 days,” I answer in Mermish and the room goes quiet, Dumbledore sitting straighter, interested, now with a sharp twinkle of amusement in his eye.
“Beg pardon?” Rumens says, rubbing at his ear like it’ll fix the problem, but I simply repeat myself, baffling the man until Dumbledore translates. Rumens narrows his eyes at me. “And the purpose to your visit?” He asks, no longer looking at the form in his lap.
“To fix something Fate has determined to be broken but potentially fixable so this reality isn’t scrapped entirely,” I supply... in Drakkon-ish, language of the Amazonian tree sprites. This time, it’s one of the paintings who translates.
“And, you claim you are a fatemaker?” Rumens asks, his voice a little smaller, uneasy.
“No, but that is what everyone’s been calling me,” I sigh (in Entish), “but Fate makes itself, really (in Voorahn, language of the Welsh gnomes), and all I can truly do is assist when needed,” I finish in Tolkien Elvish, certain at least one of the shades in their frames is well read. (There's two who trade off and bicker their way through more probable pronunciations until Dumbledore hushes them.)
By the time the shades are done translating, no one is snickering, very few are smiling (Snape is secretly smirking) and there’s no patronizing going on, period.
“I’ve been sent in my own younger image,” I continue, this time deliberately American-sounding, (because I still am, accent be damned,) “because whatever Fate has for me to do will happen in this school, at least in part. It could be a week from now. It could be a year. In all the time I’ve been bounced between realities I’ve never once been sent on a mission of harm. The assistance I provide is meant for mercy’s sake, to right a wrong, or to help replace what’s missing.
“You look at me as some kind of oddity, a child who speaks well and understands the basic concept of wisdom, but were you to collect every full year of every life I’ve lived while completing my duties in assisting the fates, I’d be just over two hundred and three thousand years old,” I say softly. “The wisdom I carry can’t be quantified by numbers because Fate can’t be explained on a form," I lean forward to tap the edge of his clipboard, "that will never be read, buried in a file in a desk in a hall on a level underground that has no official number. If I succeed, and I will,” I assure him, “you’ll know about it. Everyone in the magical world will. And in the unlikely event that I fail... no one will remember this conversation ever happened... because that is how it is fated to be.”
I don’t blink when I sit back, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to break. Of course he breaks, eyes darting down to see his form is now neatly filled in top to bottom without an errant ink splotch or a letter out of place, including the file number it will eventually be assigned before it’s forgotten in a file in a desk in a hall on a level underground that has no official number. He looks a bit stunned when he meets my eyes again, but there’s steel there too, weirdly. There’s... hope?
“Any other questions?” I ask politely, letting my British accent carry again.
For a long and tense five seconds, he doesn’t even breathe. “No,” he whispers, eyes flitting fake-nervously away. “That’ll be all, of course. If the Ministry can assist, please— let us know,” he mumbles, rising, twitching toward the door and departing without looking back. The echo of his footsteps down the spiral stairs don't ring with nerves but are steady with purpose and it’s now that I realize— the biggest mystery is how (holy shit, I'm an idiot) I’d been so blindly judgmental.
The man’s footsteps fade from the stairwell a moment later and I turn slowly to blink at everyone and land on Moody last. “He was very, very good,” I breathe out, admiringly.
“Not even I saw it, til the very last,” Moody says, his crazy eye drifting slowly back and back, presumably following the man’s progress back to the gates.
“What... on... Earth?!” McGonagall exclaims, eyes ticking around to everyone, finally settling on me.
“He’s definitely in the right department,” I chuckle-cough, shaking my head, then smirking. “He’s the Ministry’s tenth man.” When no one but Dumbledore and Moody seem to recognize it (as well as a few shades muttering their own surprise), I explain while Moody grunts with a nod.
“It varies a bit, depending on reality, but the story as I've heard it most often is... the first nine true keepers of a kingdom are advisors, hands with duties of practical day to day doings. They prepare for the future with all the tools at their disposal so that even a loss of a bulk of society, or even entire generations of rulers, life will carry on. But there is a tenth man, the hardest position of any land who must predict and prepare for the impossible. Not the unlikely, because that’s the role of the eighth man. The tenth prepares for things that cannot happen, impossible things that have no business happening in any logical way, magically or otherwise. That is his duty.”
“And no better role than that of an impossible idiot,” Moody adds, pulling a flask from his robe's pocket. “Dunno how I missed that,” he fumes grumpily, then takes a long swallow.
“But again," I breathe out, "he was very, very good. He needed to be sure so he and his associates have a reasonable excuse to either help with the final results or to hinder. Practically, he can do neither in any effective way and he knows it, but that doesn’t mean the people who think they're in charge won’t ask,” I explain and from the corner of my eye, I see Dumbledore nodding. “And what better place to hide than behind the mask of a fool in a job with no job description?”
Dumbledore hums through a small, genuine smile. McGonagall still looks vexed by the farce and waves it off, literally, with her hand and sets her sights on me. “Anything else we should know about you, then? I assume all that was inherently true?”
"All of it, yes. Fate gives me all the tools I could possibly need if I don’t possess them already, even odd ones that let me literally talk to flowers or turn into a dust mote for an easy escape.”
“A dust mote?” Moody demands, his crazy eye spinning crazily again.
I grin back. “At which time, you can no doubt expect a message to come find me, since you’re likely one of the few people on the planet who’d spot me anywhere no matter what I am.”
Moody harrumphs grumpily, like he’s pissy at the mere future possibility.
“So you're an animagus then?” McGonagall demands, eyebrows high with either doubt or surprise. (Her aura says both.).
I shrug lightly. “Yes.”
At this, everyone turns my way again, curious and surprised. “And what do you transform into?” Dumbledore asks, eyes serious again.
I shrug again. “Dragon and wolf are the simplest, but... Anything, really, if I have the energy for it. Dust motes are less likely since they’re sort of helpless after they’re caught in the wind.”
“Anything? That’s impossible,” one of the painting shades declares and is hushed by his neighboring shades.
I huff out a short sigh, stand, shake out my hair and with a hop off my toes, I shrink to a fly, then larger, to a butterfly, then a sparrow, then a chicken, hawk, owl, eagle, tree frog, toad, mouse, bat, squirrel, fox, goat, wolf, dire wolf, leopard, tiger, a saber tooth tiger (Snape finally stumbles out of his seat, back and away,) and between one leap and the next, human me, a bit out of breath. Then I retake my seat and peer knowingly up at the painting who’s occupant is now slack-jawed with surprise.
“Good grief,” McGonagall whispers, eyes like saucers. "Anything?"
“My dragon form is too big for this office,” I admit a bit sadly. "But outside--"
I miss my dragon days, air bound for hours on end. I miss flying in general, actually.
“Lets... not get into the, er, larger ones-- unless it’s an emergency of some sort,” Dumbledore interrupts, eyes a bit wide still.
Moody grunts again, like he’s unsurprised by any of it.
I nod back agreeably while Snape retakes his own seat, his grumpy scowl hiding what looks like fascination newly mixed with a bit of unease.
“So... did Professor Penumbra ever give a reason for my mental invasion?” I ask the room at large. "Because I’d really, really rather avoid incidents like that in the future.”
For a second, everyone looks around at each other, then almost as a whole, look to Dumbledore, who straightens and clears his throat.
“He said he’d wanted a... peek at whatever Fate had sent you here for,” the man says blandly and for a second I just blink patiently back at him.
“Uh huh...” I murmur at last, lips pursed. Then: “Seeing as how no one 'peeks' at Fate without the expectation of their own death soon after, did you happen to call him out on either his suicidal nature or the absurdity of that lie?” I finally ask and Moody barks another laugh before swigging deep from the flask again while McGonagall’s eyes twinkle and Snape’s smirk again looks distinctly amused. Most of the paintings snicker but offer no comment.
“I did, yes,” Dumbledore admits. “But as of right now, it seems we must allow for at least one badly-executed attempt at viewing something so personal as what’s in a person’s mind since he’s currently the only professor available to teach his course. He’s allowed his ability to be handicapped by the Ministry, however, to avoid any and all future attempts on your person and that of any other on the planet who doesn’t deliberately invite it. I do hope that will suffice?”
It’s far better a solution than I’d hoped for, honestly, so I just give a short nod.
“It will, yes.”
“Excellent. But lastly, I’ve meant to ask- you’re certain Hufflepuff is your house of choice? If, for some reason, you are meant to remain here for longer than expected, that is the House you’ll remain in.”
“Hufflepuff is ideal,” I assure him. “My aim is to quietly blend in and that’s an excellent house in which to do so. No one to remark on it if I happen to come off as quiet and shy. There’s one or two like that in every year regardless.”
“Quiet and shy?” McGonagall repeats, looking amused, of course, because that’s not me at all, which is the point and I grin back a bit, then shrug.
“The longer people talk to me, the more apparent it’ll be that I’m no first year, or at least not an especially normal one. Also, it’s amazing how many people don’t notice the quiet ones; they’ll let a lot slip in conversation when they unconsciously see the quiet, shy ones as little more than furniture. It’s a provenly effective spy strategy I've used more than once, as needed.”
“Very well,” Dumbledore nods, ticking his eyes up and over to somewhere near the door behind me. “Is that enough confirmation for you, then?”
“Yes, yes,” the Sorting Hat says impatiently from up on it’s shelf, stretching and rolling it’s fabric face as if it’s rolling its eyes with exasperation. “I’ll sort you there, then," it tells me. "Would hate for you to miss the feast. Or my new song!”
I flash it a smile and a grateful nod and it offers a small bow back and that seems to be all for the day.
Moody allows me to accompany him back down to the gates to take his leave, an easy cover for a perplexing conversation.
“Y’know who was in the office with us, aye?” He demands as we stroll/hobble down the path.
“There were plenty of people in that office with us,” I mutter, side-eyeing him.
“The ones staring holes into your back, I mean. You know the one painting?”
“Yes, I do,” I murmur, suddenly glad I hadn’t looked back; after the hour spent in the old apartment, I’m still feeling a bit raw.
“And from where I stood... I couldn’t help but notice,” Moody continues, his flask reemerging to wet his tongue, “that you’ve Hufflepuff’s nose. And Ravenclaw’s mouth. And Gryffindor’s eyes—“
“I know,” I stress, uncomfortable, stuffing my hands into my pockets, not really in any hurry to have this conversation. “I’m sure a lot of people in this world do. The only ones who’ll be looking for any similarities know there’s an excellent reason not to mention them more than once. I really am hoping not to have to be here long enough for that to ever matter.”
“Not quite my point,” he huffs, slowing as we reach the ornate ironwork of the gates. “It’s only that... you know that painting’s not what it appears to be, aye?”
I meet his eyes, then nod. “Better than you, likely," I say quietly. "Secret keeping spells, even unusual ones, don't hold for long after the caster dies. It’s easy to shirk responsibility when you see a logical endpoint to your actions and the resultant mistakes. When that endpoint stretches too far... who bears the brunt of those actions and mistakes? Sometimes, there is no one else who can. I’m not surprised at those who remained. Not even a little.”
“Not afraid, then? With the anger a few of them were projecting that I could feel from across the whole room, seems likely it’ll be one of them that’ll try to do ya in, after all.”
Both his eyes are fixed intently on me, like he’s trying to drill the danger straight into my brain and looking unimpressed when I shrug.
“They might be secret keeping idiots, but they're not stupid enough to interfere until my tasks are finished. I’ve let fate bounce me around living and reliving lives and fixing extinction level event problems for more than two hundred thousand years, Mr. Moody. And that's not an exaggeration. If all that hasn’t prepared me for the moment of my true and final death, nothing will." I offer him a rueful shrug. "And death is nothing to fear when life is all that's really left to haunt you.”
He grunts at that, nods, hobbles out the gate and gives me a jaunty wave before disappearing on the spot with a quiet pop. There was some lingering bit of sparkle in his eye that felt as familiar as it looked and I have to wonder if I didn’t just meet my brother’s descendant.
It’s a nice thought to ponder.