HP FIC: Allotted Portions (1/1)
I stayed up too late! But I wrote fic, so it's allowable. Um, it may be crappy. I kinda had an idea, and I wanted to write something down, but it's been so long since I wrote for Harry Potter any more, so... yeah. Anyway. If anyone wants to help by beta-ing, that would be awesome.
*
Title: Allotted Portions
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, Cornelius Fudge, um, random people.
Summary: There is a room in the Ministery that is not warded. Set during GoF; goings-on at the Department of Mysteries.
Rating: PG
*
There is a room in the Ministry that is not warded. There are no iron bolts and no decapitation charms. There are no locks on the door. Arthur Weasley walked into it once by mistake, heading for a Level 2 stationary cupboard. The door is an average-sized door, with a handle that doesn't bite, and hinges that don't creak. Inside this room he found Spell-o-tape. Also, staples.
When he went back to it a couple of weeks later, it had moved.
One of the Ministry architects had tried adding a tracking charm on to the room, eager to slot it into a neat space. The room accepted the charm readily enough, and settled down in the basement. The next morning, it had moved. The charm hung, shimmering slightly, over a drinking fountain.
Minister Fudge did not have very much to do with this room, nor its contents. Indeed, he tried to have as little as possible to do with the Department of Mysteries altogether; he found the whole business slightly suspect. If only they would occasionally deliver results! Instead, they were the black hole on Level 9, where sickles and galleons fed an endless array of suspect projects with no objectives and timescale on delivery. It was enough to drive a project planner mad.
*
"I simply don't see where we're going to get the money from, Croaker, I really don't. It's not like I have anything to show for our investments so far."
Croaker sipped his tea.
"Not that we would, of course, because your work is so sensitive. I'm not suggesting that we advertise your Department's work!" Fudge tried to laugh, then thought that perhaps it wouldn't be appropriate. It came out as sort of an abortive cough.
Croaker helped himself to more sugar. Really, that was the man's sixth teaspoon! Who has six spoons of sugar in watery tea?
"It's just that it's difficult to push through this level of funding when I can't divulge to the Wizengamot the reasons for it, my good man." Fudge stared at him, expectantly.
Croaker sipped his tea again.
"Not that I would leave the Department without funding! Far from it. Of course I understand how important your work is."
Croaker contemplated a chocolate-covered biscuit solemnly, then returned it to the biscuit-plate. It was evidently not to his liking. He turned his attention on the shortbread.
Fudge watched the inspection of the Ministry's biscuit-related products closely. "And I would never pry beyond my level of clearance, of course, that would be highly inappropriate."
Croaker settled on a ginger crunch.
"Well, I'm glad we've sorted that out."
Croaker smiled a little, then set his cup and saucer down on the edge of the desk and made his way out of Fudge's office.
The Minister paused, briefly perplexed to find himself with two cups of tea and a biscuit-plate. "Dolores!"
Umbridge popped her face around the door immediately. Really, she was ever so helpful. "Yes, Minister?"
Fudge paused again. "Was I talking to someone just now?"
Her smile stayed firmly in place, but there was a slight tic at her jaw. "Yes, Minister. You were talking to one of the Unspeakables. Croaker."
"Ah, yes." Fudge waved her away. As Umbridge closed the door behind her, he allowed himself a frown. He honestly had no idea what to do with that Department, not a bloody clue. They didn't so much requisition funds as turn up to his office and walk off with permission to have whatever they wanted, much to his never-ending mystification. They didn't use Obliviate on him - he'd checked - but he still had trouble retaining any information on their conversations. Blasted people. He'd tried to put a stop on their recruitment, but they didn't even do that like normal wizards, damn them. No N.E.W.T.s required to be an Unspeakable; new ones would just turn up occasionally, and anyone bothering to check the payroll records would find that they'd always been there.
Bloody inconvenient, if you asked Fudge.
*
Cadmus Croaker rather thinks that he'd like to work in a Room that isn't the Death Chamber one of these days. Or maybe he has, and just doesn't remember it. It wouldn't be the first time.
It's not that he doesn't like the Death Chamber - he likes it just fine, thank you very much, never a dull moment there. Not that there are many moments of any kind in the Chamber, of course, but that's neither here nor there.
The thing is - and this is a very important thing - they've already discovered quite a few of the Rules, and that puts a serious limit on the amount of work he can do in there. It's what makes him think that he's quite junior in this Department, Fudge's beliefs notwithstanding. The Minister could have a meeting with the tea-elf and come out convinced he'd spoken to the head of Department, if that is what is needed. Not that Croaker is entirely sure who the head is, mind you, or whether he is in fact what passes for it these days. No one tells him these things.
Not that there's anyone to tell him, of course. Well, there's Bode, but if he knows, he's not telling. And Arlington, he's reasonably sure that she's one of them as well. They both go to Level 9 on the elevator, although that could mean that she's a messenger, or Fudge's spy, or possibly the tea-elf. One never knows.
There's also the other people in the Chamber, of course, but he's never seen them, so he can't be sure. He thinks that they exist, but then Bode told him about that wizard who thought that he had help in the Brain Tank, and it turned out that he was there on his own. He's still around, Bode said, grinning, occupying tank number 38.
Croaker thinks that this is a big fat pile of - anyway, he's not listening to Bode. For all he knows, Bode is Fudge's man. He's had to dissect one too many reanimated corpses to be sure of anything much, these days.
*
Augustus Bode worked in a small cubicle down the hall from the Time Room. He knew it was the Time Room because Zelde Kurt had said so, although she may have been lying. He's not entirely sure what she was doing up on Level 9, anyway, didn't she work with Arthur Weasley, something to do with Muggles?
Augustus Bode knows exactly what he does for the Department of Mysteries. He also knows who sits in the other cubicles in that hall. And he's not telling.
*
Kingsley found Arthur wandering around Level 2, occasionally stopping to stare suspiciously at a drinking fountain.
"Hello, Arthur, how're you doing today?"
"Oh, hullo Kingsley," Arthur said distractedly. "I don't suppose you remember whether there was a stationary cupboard here before?"
Kingsley looked at the fountain. It looked back. "No," he said, suddenly very, very certain that there was nothing there but a drinking fountain. "It's down the hall. Definitely."
"Hmmm."
He couldn't resist looking back. He was right: the fountain was looking at him.
Bloody Unspeakables.
*
The Ministry architect, evidently understanding that charms were perhaps not the best approach, tried to reason with the room. It hadn't been planned, he pointed out, and pointed at the empty space on Level 9 where, he thought, the room originated from. The Rotating room emptied out on to a long series of cubicles that led through to the Time Room. There was an empty space in-between, and the Room had set up shop there, probably when someone wasn't looking.
It's not like it wasn't welcome, the architect tried to explain. He liked come-and-go rooms as much as the next wizard. But it was the Minister, you see. He wanted all the rooms on a map, somewhere. Not that they had to stay there if they didn't want to, the architect hastened to explain. He wasn't trying to be imperialist and lord his animated wizard status over that of inanimate wizardspaces, he was most certainly not that kind of wizard.
The next day, the Room had taken up residence on his map, possibly out of pity. Level 9, centre right as you exit the lift, right in between the Rotating Room and the cubicles. It decided to call itself, simply, the Locked Room.
The architect looked at the Room, and the lack of locks on the door. He looked at the map. He decided not to argue.
*
Dolores Umbridge once tried to enter the Locked Room. She was returning from a meeting of the Wizengamot - a small matter, nothing of consequence - and the lift had stopped at Level 9 on its way down. There was no one in the lift with her, and she had specifically requested the Lobby. Still, there it was. The Department of Mysteries. The worst run, most troublesome Department in the entire Ministry; they were forever giving the Minister headaches. Blasted, bothersome creatures. And no one in sight.
The first room she came to was the Locked Room. This isn't because it faces the lift, or even because it is the nearest room. Nevertheless, there it was, right in front of her. The Locked Room, right in front of her. It wasn't locked.
Inside, she found three kneazles and a ferret. Also, half a broomstick. (The bottom half. Okay, maybe a pile of twigs.)
As it turns out, ferrets are vicious little bastards that bite like nobody's business.
*
Ernie Delcraft still thinks he is on his summer internship. And he is, until further notice.
At some point in Ernie's future, his parents will stop badgering the Ministry about finding him in the Department of Mysteries, because it will turn out that he had been employed by them all along.
Ernie prefers Eccles cakes to biscuits. He feels that this is important, and that it sets him apart from his contemporaries.
Ernie's contemporaries have been dead for 300 years.
*
"So what's the difference between an Auror and an Unspeakable?" Ron asked, chewing on a chicken drumstick.
"An Auror's a Dark Wizard catcher," his dad explained. He helped Ron reach the potatoes; Ron still wasn't quite tall enough yet to reach clear across the table. "An Unspeakable is - well, no one is quite sure what they are, really."
"They're Dark Wizards," Fred informed him solemnly.
"The Darkest," George confirmed. "They raise the dead into armies for Fudge."
"Fred! George! Stop lying to your brother!" Molly thwacked them both soundly about the head and heaped more carrots on Ron's plate. "Make sure you eat all of that, Ron, you want to grow up tall before you go to Hogwarts, don't you?"
"Yeah, you want to get taller, don't you ickle Ronniekins?"
"Mum!"
*
Arlington is not, in fact, the tea-elf.
Well, not always.
*
"Thank you for inviting me, ladies. May I assume you have some news for me?"
The youngest smiled around crooked teeth. "We have found a suitable one, Dumbledore. Although perhaps you will not agree."
"That depends on the conditions," Albus said mildly. "May I see it?"
The other two looked at each other, then nodded. They stepped away from the far wall, there a loom had been set up. A half-finished weaving was there, the threads still hanging loose. Dumbledore examined the tapestry for a long moment, his fingers counting the threads, measuring width and length. "This version is better than the other one," he said at last. "I commend you."
The youngest shrugged. "You stated the conditions. We merely wove."
"Ah, but such a tapestry!" His hands still rested on the half-finished weave, on where Harry sent Albus Severus off to school. All was well. It wasn't perfect, of course, with some threads shorter than the others. A few were thin and fraying already, hanging in bedraggled clumps from the loom. One, near the beginning, was short indeed, with a clean end to it, as if someone had cut a spare thread.
"They live?" He inquired, his voice a trifle hoarse. "Not all, but most?"
"They live," the youngest confirmed. "In this version, at least."
In this version, yes. Not in all the versions. Not in the last six they had shown him, where Hogwarts lay in ruins, and Harry took Voldemort with him; where the entire Isles was lost, and the battle was fought in Normandy; where Voldemort took the Magic with him as he died; where Voldemort's death made no difference, and Lucius Malfoy rode to victory at the head of the Death Eaters; where there were no more children born, and the playgrounds were deserted, and the babies all died; where the last Horcrux remained infuriatingly, terrifyingly still hidden. No, he'd said, no these are not suitable. Beautiful - yes. But not suitable.
We will need to cut some other threads, they said. We cannot do this with all untouched. A black thread here, a red thread there; one by one, he identified his old pupils. An entire generation, wiped out.
"Don't tell me the rest." His fingers hesitated over one particular thread, grey and gold spun together. We will need to cut some other threads.
All of the old guard, or so many as to make no difference. Well. So much the better.
"It is beautiful. You have done me proud, ladies. Thank you."
The youngest bowed, smiling. "A pleasure, Dumbledore. Be sure to send young Harry our regards. We have become so fond of him."
"Yes," he murmured. "I rather think you have." He cast one last glance back at the tapestry. "Will you be contacting him directly after I am gone?"
The youngest shrugged. "No. We're tired. I think we're planning on taking a holiday or two. See how the tapestry weaves itself for a while."
"That would be a wise choice, I think." He bowed to them. "Ladies. Thank you for your assistance."
"Goodbye, Dumbledore," the eldest said, smiling, resting the shears on the ground for a moment. "See you soon."
He let the door close behind him with a soft 'click', and narrowly avoided running into Arthur Weasley.
"Dumbledore! What on earth are you doing here?"
"Just visiting old friends, Arthur."
Arthur looked at the door behind Dumbledore somewhat doubtfully "In the stationary cupboard?"
He smiled a little sadly. "I suppose so. Now. I must be away; I really should speak to Cornelius."
Arthur shook his head. "Terribly business, losing the Diggory boy like that - Albus, Fudge isn't, that is -" he hesitated. "I'm not sure he's willing to listen. He's been acting a little odd."
"I know," Dumbledore said quietly. "That can't be helped."
Arthur hesitated, then pitched his voice low. "I rather think that maybe - we should consider contacting people individually, rather than relying on the Ministry. Aurors and Unspeakables, I mean."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. His hand was still on the unlocked door of the Locked Room. He could hear the soft, merciless sounds of three women weaving inside. "That's a good idea."
*
There is a room in the Ministry that is not warded. There are no iron bolts and no decapitation charms. There are no locks on the door.
If you could look inside, you would see an unfinished spill of fabric with ragged, cut edges. If you look closely enough, one of the threads will seem familiar.
*
fin
A/N1: Why didn't we get to find out anything about the Unspeakables during the books? Boo, hiss.
A/N2: The name for the Moirae translates literally as 'allotted portions'.
A/N3: map of the Department of Mysteries
*
Title: Allotted Portions
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, Cornelius Fudge, um, random people.
Summary: There is a room in the Ministery that is not warded. Set during GoF; goings-on at the Department of Mysteries.
Rating: PG
*
There is a room in the Ministry that is not warded. There are no iron bolts and no decapitation charms. There are no locks on the door. Arthur Weasley walked into it once by mistake, heading for a Level 2 stationary cupboard. The door is an average-sized door, with a handle that doesn't bite, and hinges that don't creak. Inside this room he found Spell-o-tape. Also, staples.
When he went back to it a couple of weeks later, it had moved.
One of the Ministry architects had tried adding a tracking charm on to the room, eager to slot it into a neat space. The room accepted the charm readily enough, and settled down in the basement. The next morning, it had moved. The charm hung, shimmering slightly, over a drinking fountain.
Minister Fudge did not have very much to do with this room, nor its contents. Indeed, he tried to have as little as possible to do with the Department of Mysteries altogether; he found the whole business slightly suspect. If only they would occasionally deliver results! Instead, they were the black hole on Level 9, where sickles and galleons fed an endless array of suspect projects with no objectives and timescale on delivery. It was enough to drive a project planner mad.
*
"I simply don't see where we're going to get the money from, Croaker, I really don't. It's not like I have anything to show for our investments so far."
Croaker sipped his tea.
"Not that we would, of course, because your work is so sensitive. I'm not suggesting that we advertise your Department's work!" Fudge tried to laugh, then thought that perhaps it wouldn't be appropriate. It came out as sort of an abortive cough.
Croaker helped himself to more sugar. Really, that was the man's sixth teaspoon! Who has six spoons of sugar in watery tea?
"It's just that it's difficult to push through this level of funding when I can't divulge to the Wizengamot the reasons for it, my good man." Fudge stared at him, expectantly.
Croaker sipped his tea again.
"Not that I would leave the Department without funding! Far from it. Of course I understand how important your work is."
Croaker contemplated a chocolate-covered biscuit solemnly, then returned it to the biscuit-plate. It was evidently not to his liking. He turned his attention on the shortbread.
Fudge watched the inspection of the Ministry's biscuit-related products closely. "And I would never pry beyond my level of clearance, of course, that would be highly inappropriate."
Croaker settled on a ginger crunch.
"Well, I'm glad we've sorted that out."
Croaker smiled a little, then set his cup and saucer down on the edge of the desk and made his way out of Fudge's office.
The Minister paused, briefly perplexed to find himself with two cups of tea and a biscuit-plate. "Dolores!"
Umbridge popped her face around the door immediately. Really, she was ever so helpful. "Yes, Minister?"
Fudge paused again. "Was I talking to someone just now?"
Her smile stayed firmly in place, but there was a slight tic at her jaw. "Yes, Minister. You were talking to one of the Unspeakables. Croaker."
"Ah, yes." Fudge waved her away. As Umbridge closed the door behind her, he allowed himself a frown. He honestly had no idea what to do with that Department, not a bloody clue. They didn't so much requisition funds as turn up to his office and walk off with permission to have whatever they wanted, much to his never-ending mystification. They didn't use Obliviate on him - he'd checked - but he still had trouble retaining any information on their conversations. Blasted people. He'd tried to put a stop on their recruitment, but they didn't even do that like normal wizards, damn them. No N.E.W.T.s required to be an Unspeakable; new ones would just turn up occasionally, and anyone bothering to check the payroll records would find that they'd always been there.
Bloody inconvenient, if you asked Fudge.
*
Cadmus Croaker rather thinks that he'd like to work in a Room that isn't the Death Chamber one of these days. Or maybe he has, and just doesn't remember it. It wouldn't be the first time.
It's not that he doesn't like the Death Chamber - he likes it just fine, thank you very much, never a dull moment there. Not that there are many moments of any kind in the Chamber, of course, but that's neither here nor there.
The thing is - and this is a very important thing - they've already discovered quite a few of the Rules, and that puts a serious limit on the amount of work he can do in there. It's what makes him think that he's quite junior in this Department, Fudge's beliefs notwithstanding. The Minister could have a meeting with the tea-elf and come out convinced he'd spoken to the head of Department, if that is what is needed. Not that Croaker is entirely sure who the head is, mind you, or whether he is in fact what passes for it these days. No one tells him these things.
Not that there's anyone to tell him, of course. Well, there's Bode, but if he knows, he's not telling. And Arlington, he's reasonably sure that she's one of them as well. They both go to Level 9 on the elevator, although that could mean that she's a messenger, or Fudge's spy, or possibly the tea-elf. One never knows.
There's also the other people in the Chamber, of course, but he's never seen them, so he can't be sure. He thinks that they exist, but then Bode told him about that wizard who thought that he had help in the Brain Tank, and it turned out that he was there on his own. He's still around, Bode said, grinning, occupying tank number 38.
Croaker thinks that this is a big fat pile of - anyway, he's not listening to Bode. For all he knows, Bode is Fudge's man. He's had to dissect one too many reanimated corpses to be sure of anything much, these days.
*
Augustus Bode worked in a small cubicle down the hall from the Time Room. He knew it was the Time Room because Zelde Kurt had said so, although she may have been lying. He's not entirely sure what she was doing up on Level 9, anyway, didn't she work with Arthur Weasley, something to do with Muggles?
Augustus Bode knows exactly what he does for the Department of Mysteries. He also knows who sits in the other cubicles in that hall. And he's not telling.
*
Kingsley found Arthur wandering around Level 2, occasionally stopping to stare suspiciously at a drinking fountain.
"Hello, Arthur, how're you doing today?"
"Oh, hullo Kingsley," Arthur said distractedly. "I don't suppose you remember whether there was a stationary cupboard here before?"
Kingsley looked at the fountain. It looked back. "No," he said, suddenly very, very certain that there was nothing there but a drinking fountain. "It's down the hall. Definitely."
"Hmmm."
He couldn't resist looking back. He was right: the fountain was looking at him.
Bloody Unspeakables.
*
The Ministry architect, evidently understanding that charms were perhaps not the best approach, tried to reason with the room. It hadn't been planned, he pointed out, and pointed at the empty space on Level 9 where, he thought, the room originated from. The Rotating room emptied out on to a long series of cubicles that led through to the Time Room. There was an empty space in-between, and the Room had set up shop there, probably when someone wasn't looking.
It's not like it wasn't welcome, the architect tried to explain. He liked come-and-go rooms as much as the next wizard. But it was the Minister, you see. He wanted all the rooms on a map, somewhere. Not that they had to stay there if they didn't want to, the architect hastened to explain. He wasn't trying to be imperialist and lord his animated wizard status over that of inanimate wizardspaces, he was most certainly not that kind of wizard.
The next day, the Room had taken up residence on his map, possibly out of pity. Level 9, centre right as you exit the lift, right in between the Rotating Room and the cubicles. It decided to call itself, simply, the Locked Room.
The architect looked at the Room, and the lack of locks on the door. He looked at the map. He decided not to argue.
*
Dolores Umbridge once tried to enter the Locked Room. She was returning from a meeting of the Wizengamot - a small matter, nothing of consequence - and the lift had stopped at Level 9 on its way down. There was no one in the lift with her, and she had specifically requested the Lobby. Still, there it was. The Department of Mysteries. The worst run, most troublesome Department in the entire Ministry; they were forever giving the Minister headaches. Blasted, bothersome creatures. And no one in sight.
The first room she came to was the Locked Room. This isn't because it faces the lift, or even because it is the nearest room. Nevertheless, there it was, right in front of her. The Locked Room, right in front of her. It wasn't locked.
Inside, she found three kneazles and a ferret. Also, half a broomstick. (The bottom half. Okay, maybe a pile of twigs.)
As it turns out, ferrets are vicious little bastards that bite like nobody's business.
*
Ernie Delcraft still thinks he is on his summer internship. And he is, until further notice.
At some point in Ernie's future, his parents will stop badgering the Ministry about finding him in the Department of Mysteries, because it will turn out that he had been employed by them all along.
Ernie prefers Eccles cakes to biscuits. He feels that this is important, and that it sets him apart from his contemporaries.
Ernie's contemporaries have been dead for 300 years.
*
"So what's the difference between an Auror and an Unspeakable?" Ron asked, chewing on a chicken drumstick.
"An Auror's a Dark Wizard catcher," his dad explained. He helped Ron reach the potatoes; Ron still wasn't quite tall enough yet to reach clear across the table. "An Unspeakable is - well, no one is quite sure what they are, really."
"They're Dark Wizards," Fred informed him solemnly.
"The Darkest," George confirmed. "They raise the dead into armies for Fudge."
"Fred! George! Stop lying to your brother!" Molly thwacked them both soundly about the head and heaped more carrots on Ron's plate. "Make sure you eat all of that, Ron, you want to grow up tall before you go to Hogwarts, don't you?"
"Yeah, you want to get taller, don't you ickle Ronniekins?"
"Mum!"
*
Arlington is not, in fact, the tea-elf.
Well, not always.
*
"Thank you for inviting me, ladies. May I assume you have some news for me?"
The youngest smiled around crooked teeth. "We have found a suitable one, Dumbledore. Although perhaps you will not agree."
"That depends on the conditions," Albus said mildly. "May I see it?"
The other two looked at each other, then nodded. They stepped away from the far wall, there a loom had been set up. A half-finished weaving was there, the threads still hanging loose. Dumbledore examined the tapestry for a long moment, his fingers counting the threads, measuring width and length. "This version is better than the other one," he said at last. "I commend you."
The youngest shrugged. "You stated the conditions. We merely wove."
"Ah, but such a tapestry!" His hands still rested on the half-finished weave, on where Harry sent Albus Severus off to school. All was well. It wasn't perfect, of course, with some threads shorter than the others. A few were thin and fraying already, hanging in bedraggled clumps from the loom. One, near the beginning, was short indeed, with a clean end to it, as if someone had cut a spare thread.
"They live?" He inquired, his voice a trifle hoarse. "Not all, but most?"
"They live," the youngest confirmed. "In this version, at least."
In this version, yes. Not in all the versions. Not in the last six they had shown him, where Hogwarts lay in ruins, and Harry took Voldemort with him; where the entire Isles was lost, and the battle was fought in Normandy; where Voldemort took the Magic with him as he died; where Voldemort's death made no difference, and Lucius Malfoy rode to victory at the head of the Death Eaters; where there were no more children born, and the playgrounds were deserted, and the babies all died; where the last Horcrux remained infuriatingly, terrifyingly still hidden. No, he'd said, no these are not suitable. Beautiful - yes. But not suitable.
We will need to cut some other threads, they said. We cannot do this with all untouched. A black thread here, a red thread there; one by one, he identified his old pupils. An entire generation, wiped out.
"Don't tell me the rest." His fingers hesitated over one particular thread, grey and gold spun together. We will need to cut some other threads.
All of the old guard, or so many as to make no difference. Well. So much the better.
"It is beautiful. You have done me proud, ladies. Thank you."
The youngest bowed, smiling. "A pleasure, Dumbledore. Be sure to send young Harry our regards. We have become so fond of him."
"Yes," he murmured. "I rather think you have." He cast one last glance back at the tapestry. "Will you be contacting him directly after I am gone?"
The youngest shrugged. "No. We're tired. I think we're planning on taking a holiday or two. See how the tapestry weaves itself for a while."
"That would be a wise choice, I think." He bowed to them. "Ladies. Thank you for your assistance."
"Goodbye, Dumbledore," the eldest said, smiling, resting the shears on the ground for a moment. "See you soon."
He let the door close behind him with a soft 'click', and narrowly avoided running into Arthur Weasley.
"Dumbledore! What on earth are you doing here?"
"Just visiting old friends, Arthur."
Arthur looked at the door behind Dumbledore somewhat doubtfully "In the stationary cupboard?"
He smiled a little sadly. "I suppose so. Now. I must be away; I really should speak to Cornelius."
Arthur shook his head. "Terribly business, losing the Diggory boy like that - Albus, Fudge isn't, that is -" he hesitated. "I'm not sure he's willing to listen. He's been acting a little odd."
"I know," Dumbledore said quietly. "That can't be helped."
Arthur hesitated, then pitched his voice low. "I rather think that maybe - we should consider contacting people individually, rather than relying on the Ministry. Aurors and Unspeakables, I mean."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. His hand was still on the unlocked door of the Locked Room. He could hear the soft, merciless sounds of three women weaving inside. "That's a good idea."
*
There is a room in the Ministry that is not warded. There are no iron bolts and no decapitation charms. There are no locks on the door.
If you could look inside, you would see an unfinished spill of fabric with ragged, cut edges. If you look closely enough, one of the threads will seem familiar.
*
fin
A/N1: Why didn't we get to find out anything about the Unspeakables during the books? Boo, hiss.
A/N2: The name for the Moirae translates literally as 'allotted portions'.
A/N3: map of the Department of Mysteries