Secret Secrets

The British Ministry was idiotic.

Perhaps she could not generalize in full - after all, the Minister of Magic was nowhere to be found. However, she counted that as further evidence of the government's idiocy. They were attempting to continue as normally as they could, and no sort of arrangements had been made, it appeared. Claire could not fathom how or why an entire organization could continue with such blind, determined ignorance but... Here they were.

We. She had to remember that she was now a cog in this mechanism, whether she wanted to be or not. Slip ups like that could be incredibly damaging to her tasks while here.

Still. She wouldn't complain too much about the obvious weak points in the system, because it was helping her along wonderfully. She had been given clearance to meet with the Head Unspeakable, to work in conjunction and coordination with him or her. Yes, she had been sworn into secrecy, but she still found it flabbergasting that they would allow her into the bosom on the Department of Mysteries.

Like she said, she wasn't going to complain.

Dressed in her usual professional, stylish woman's suit, she made her way into to heart of the Ministry, her ponytail tickling the back of her neck. She stepped out onto the appropriate floor where the offices of the Unspeakables were located. She approached a desk where a severe looking man was manning the helm. "Claire Bishop. I have an appointment."

"Lys, you great big arsehole."

"Morning to you too, Freddie." Lysander Scamander was a douche. He was as douche-y as one would expect a twenty-four year old man with a rhyming name to be, and then some. He was also Fred Weasley's best mate, and that was a title to be taken seriously.

Even now, he was sounding irritatingly happy and Zen-like, which was a permanent affliction. Even without seeing his face, Fred could see the 'I-am-the-personification-of-Buddha' smile currently decorating Lysander's face. He had all the placidity of a slumbering duck, and it was a nigh impossibility to ruffle his feathers. Unless you called him Lissie, and Fred had no inclination for powdered Erumpent horn in his tea again, thank you very much. "Morning. I'm at work. Good night."

"Oh, your jokes are getting worse." Lysander's voice crackled through the sound-piece in his ear, sounding faintly amused, the twit. It all was a charade, Fred knew. One of the great conspiracies that the Quibbler should have published a long time ago. Lysander may prance here and there, all 'I'm-the-son-of-the-biggest-whackjob-in-the-Wizarding-World', but he was a twit and an evil one at that; hiding all the slyness and the cunning and the devilry behind blonde bangs and a bowl of Gulping Plimpy soup. "How did you get the approval to use the earpiece in Ministry premises anyway?"

Fred absently wished that his best mate were actually present before him now, the impressive death-glare was all but wasted. His left hand fiddled with the invention fastened to his left ear- his own, a simple calling device that fed on magic instead of electricity. Piece of cake for the son of George Weasley. His right hand was holding his wand, and twirling continuously: sending papers flying through the air, folding into memos and zooming out of the door, copying his elaborate signature on stacks of documents and banishing them into 'Done' piles, authenticating forms, powering a broom to sweep all dust bunnies to the corner of the room.......the kind of efficient chaos that he functioned best in. "They don't know, naturally. And I am working, thank you for that vote of confidence."

"Naturally." Lysander returned, and Fred could sense a smirk lurking behind the Zen-veneer. "And what are you working on?"

Fred reclined into the armchair, stretching out the kinks in his shoulder, booted feet propped up heavily on the massive, claw-footed desk. His head cocked to the side, eyes fixed intently on the delicately-engraved, 5x5 box hovering before his eyes, rotating continuously. "Ancient French puzzle box. 18th century. Now shut it, someone's coming." With a snap of his fingers, the connection was terminated and with a barely-there creak, the door swung open and Manning stepped in. "Appointment 11:15."

Fred waved two fingers carelessly. "Send them in." The man gave him an implacable look, then exited with a short, measured move. He reminded him of an old-English butler, at times, what with all the determination to keep the facial muscles as constrained as possible.

Fred was just musing upon a mission to make the man smile, at least once, when the door opened with a click again. He tilted his head up, shot a languorous smile and voiced, "Welcome to the Department of Mysteries." Then his gaze flitted back to the puzzle, the magic in the room scarcely pausing to send objects flying this way and that across the room, booted feet tapping out the latest tune of Crying Cacophony.

Ah, old creature comforts.

The man at the desk quickly went about the business of confirming the appointment, giving Claire a quick look around of the office. It was minimalist, to say the least. She was certain the cocky Unspeakables were convinced that even a picture of a bowl of fruit would somehow give away all of their deepest secrets. She understood regular pictures, with the gossipy subjects constantly flitting about, but not even a fern in the corner or something? Claire considered herself fairly cold, impersonal, and professional, but the Department of Mysteries would always be a mystery to her.

Her presence confirmed and approved, the man at the desk stood and ushered her towards the proper door, opening it before her and announcing the appointment. The man bowed out and informed her that she could approach. My, my, aren't we stiff. It wasn't unfamiliar, of course, but it seemed so strange here, where the Aurors had become accustomed to No Paperwork Thursdays and where the interns were all dating some higher-up. It seemed that the Department on Ministries still attempted to maintain some sense of professionalism and decorum. Though she would mock it, she was somewhat impressed.

She strode into the office, relaxed and confident in herself - so, nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes found the sole occupant of the office, a handsome, lazy looking young man who was lounging at the desk, relaxed as anything. Of course. She knew a lot of these sorts of men, didn't she? She was certain some college in America would say she qualified to have majored in Lazy, Handsome Young Men. She didn't even have to go looking for them - they always managed to find her, it seemed.

"Good morning," she said curtly. He had not looked at her, so she turned her gaze away, quickly taking in the busy office space. Naturally, her attention was quickly drawn to the object which had seemed to have captured his attention so wholly. She immediately recognized it. "Puzzle box," she said, cocking her head slightly to give her a better perspective on the thing, eyes tracing the lines, the shape, the size, running it through a mental catalog. "Looks French. Can't be earlier than the 1900s, can it, with that vibrant of color."

Footsteps sounded through the room, quick, decisive clicks that hinted towards platform heels: the professional, remotely comfortable kind that most witches in the Ministry preferred wearing. Dark brown shoes propped ankle over ankle on the desk parted to allow vision, amber eyes flitted above the smooth, gold-inlaid box, registering the view. Eyebrows didn’t take time to rise to the hairline.

Well, well. Lookie what we have here.

Back at Hogwarts, like all other teenagers, Fred and his friends were liable to shove stereotypes, or give artless nicknames to all ‘types’ of people. Grown out of it in fifth….okay, maybe sixth year. Point was, he wasn’t a teenager any more. But looking at the woman before him now, Fred allowed himself a moment of adolescent stereotyping.

Thin. Young. Blonde. Swathed in professionalism. She looked like the quintessential poster-kid for feminism, woman-empowerment, world-domination by the X-chromosome or whatever else they were calling it nowadays.

He could just see her, walking back and forth prissily in her department, issuing prim commands.

A low, amused sound made it past his lips. His right ankle unhooked from around the left, legs moved slowly and swung off the table, landing heavily on the ground. “I must say……I didn’t expect the contact with…” His wand was still twirling in his right hand, his left hand rose up and snatched one of the zooming paper pieces out of the air, darting a indolent glance at it, “..I’m sorry, my contact with the…ah, Department of Law Enforcement to be so young.” He flashed a blinding grin, with a touch of indulgence. “Then again, you are perhaps entitled to say the same about me.”

“This is French yes…Rouen, to be more specific. Glad to see not all the Aurors of the Department are blind, despite rumours.” He waved a hand to the rather stiff-backed, low seat opposite the desk. His predecessor had had it, probably as an attempt to keep whoever entered his domain at a height disadvantage, and as uncomfortable as possible. Fred hadn’t felt the need to have it removed, finding the original idea, and it, ridiculously entertaining. “Do have a seat.”

His eyes flickered back to the puzzle box, fingertips tracing lightly over the patterns. Meanwhile, all around them papers whizzed and flew, drawers slid open, hard-bound documents filing in and out of them, and the broom seemed quite determined to beat every speck of dust in the room into submission.

“So….I hear the Department requires our help.”

He made a noise like a chuckle and, if Claire were one prone to letting her feelings rule her actions, she probably would have punched him. How she hated when people made it clear that she did not seem one fit for her job. It was one of the most ridiculous things she had to deal with. Was it because she was young, attractive, or female? For all these things were wonderful assets to everyone elsewhere, but as soon as she was placed into a professional setting, these assets somehow became liabilities that worked against her. It was incredibly frustrating, no matter how many times she had to face it, and no matter in which degree.

Still. Claire was well restrained, and exercised control over herself wonderfully. Once out of work, however, she would surely abuse her kickboxing instructor to compensate for the hidden frustrations throughout the day. But this man would get the benefit of the doubt, even if she would remember the noise. She let her professional smile relax, leaving the trace of it on her face as her lips relaxed back into their neutral state. She kept her arms at her sides, a sign of being comfortable and not conscious about her body. She looked gently confident, and she would keep it at that.

As he spoke, she lifted her head and parted her lips to inform him that he looked young himself, before he beat her to it. She gave a small, inclining smile and nodded. He addressed the box and she blinked, nodding again. "Mmm. Much sharper than southern French work." He continued and she quirked her head. "Ah, not an Auror, sir. It may seem a small distinction, but please be sure to make it." She smiled briefly, to reassure him it was only a mistake, though she would not be very forgiving if it were made again. It reminded her of her time back in America, especially dealing with other Heads of Departments. In fact, she had once had this conversation with an Unspeakable before. Funny how things worked.

He urged her to sit and she dipped her head. "Thank you." She took her seat, resting her knee over the other in a relaxed fashion, patiently watching him, looking comfortable before him. He spoke again and she smiled. "I hope you don't mind me being blunt, sir. Back home, I had a tendency to cut through the red tape and just get to business. I'm not sure of the British Ministry's feelings on that but, once again, to be blunt, I really don't care all too much their feelings either." She paused. "I have been surveying the department as objectively as I can and I believe it is... hmm. How to phrase it - the Law Enforcement department is shit. Specifically my squadron. I'm Captain of the Magical Law and Enforcement Patrol, and I'm fairly sure I was given drop-outs. And not the clever, street-smart sort either. I would like to whip my men and women into shape so that they can begin working well with your department and fulfilling what they are meant to do."

She paused. "That said, there is talent, and I have been asked to work on special projects with my own, special team. There are a few projects we've been given - mostly the retrieval of stolen artifacts. I would like to work more heavily with your department to work on projects of greater importance, and to be able to let resources flow between my team and yours."

((OOC: I do not deserve to live after the delay for this post, I know Hope that the long-ish ness makes up the minutestestestestest fraction for it xP ))



"Ah, not an Auror, sir. It may seem a small distinction, but please be sure to make it."

The woman's tone was kind, but gently reprimanding, like a mother whose forgiveness would not stretch too far. A brief flash of white between chapped pink; the tip of his canines gleamed white in a smile, before withdrawing behind the safety of lips, accompanied by an amiable, "My bad."

For a moment, sharp, economic flourishes of indigo writing, with looping P's, ran through his memory like a camera roll. Ah.......professional, confident women. How he adored Professional, Confident women.

She asked him to excuse her bluntness, before not bothering to wait for a response and being exactly that: every clause perfectly constructed and so completely lacking in meretriciousness, in twirls and airs and fanfare, that Fred found himself leaning forward, an inch at a time, in spite of everything. Eyes were still fixed on the puzzle box though, but they flitted for a millisecond to her face every time she paused for breath, impossible to distinguish. He already knew every square millimetre of the box, that wasn't the problem. But giving open attention to someone, being a Head, was a liability not to be taken lightly, especially to another Head. The more you held it back, the more people worked to earn it.

But this woman.....the more she talked, the more frequent grew those glances that he spared in her direction as she spoke. It was......fascinating really. The whole Professionalism and Confidence notwithstanding......she was like a drill. A big, round, smooth, diamond-dust edged drill that kept pressing on relentlessly, incising this way and that in a no-nonsense-and-frills manner that Fred would find impossible to replicate, being the way he was. (He liked being honest with himself). And the beauty of a human mind was in the fact that while a languorous part of his brain contemplated the similarities between Au- sorry, Law Enforcement Officers and drills, a second part of it catalogued and briskly analysed every word that dropped out of her mouth.

"Incompetence is sadly, an affliction that most of us have to deal with on a daily basis. And even more, not even a wholly British one." The last words were dropped on a lark. She might find it 'inappropriate'. He'd breeze with it. "I usually drop the more mildly fatal tasks on the scrubbers. Trainees, so as to speak. Disabling curses, working on small objects of unknown origin, the like." A light pause. "Everyone here is well aware that your stupidity is your own hazard. Its a good incentive."

Now. To work. He straightened up with barely a push, palms spread out on the desk on both his sides in a centred grip. "I don't know what details have been given to you, and of which projects. But speaking of one of greater importance..." The puzzle cube spun lightly in the air, then bobbed over to the space between the two, hovering mid-air. "This is what we're working on presently. A link, in a longer chain." His right hand, replete with wand, traced a rune in the air with ease, the air particles encircled within the character growing thicker and more translucent; and a flickering mirage rose to being- an image of a roughly hewn, American Indian wooden jewellery box appearing beside his right shoulder. "This was recovered in New Orleans, and handed over to the British Ministry due to the fact that the person- antiques dealer- it was stolen from was British. There were two more attempts to steal it on-route New York to London, but we have it in our custody now, for two reasons. First, the obvious importance of the three attempts to steal it. Second, because it is also a hidden puzzle box." The image disappeared and with a flick, another took its place- an even, metallic sphere coated with tarnished gold. The light designs etched on the base were rather Oriental. "This, was recovered from a World War II blast site, in England itself; but is clearly South East Asian in origin. China, or Japan, we're guessing. Stolen three months ago, recovered last week, but perpetrators escaped. We thought it was a music-box. Surprise, surprise, it also unlocks with a puzzle."

Then his left hand snatched the Rouen box out of the air. The box shimmered in the fake sunlight filtering in from the nearby window. There were no real windows in the Department Of Mysteries. "We believe this is the third of the set. We haven't managed to unlock it yet; but are waiting for the inevitable theft attempt. Which is where your Department comes in." Then, the collective was dropped without preamble. His voice didn't even remotely invite an argument. "I want two of your subordinates to be on guard at all times. Not even a second of unsupervision." Of course, his wards would be there when the guard inevitably got sidestepped. This was just a red herring.

"And.....we think there are others. And they were created for a reason. To know what, we need to have the others in our possession. The research and tracking will by done by the Unspeakables. However.....the higher-ups want your Department to be involved in the recovery. Apparently Law Enforcement officials are more...." " His lips curled upwards in a brief flash of amusement. "conscientious towards Ministry regulations regarding spellwork, in comparison to the more.....ah, unconventional Unspeakables."

"Questions?"

This man had a way with words, and he knew it. Claire could see and hear that he enjoyed tasting words, he enjoyed the way they rolled around his mouth, and the way they made their way from his thoughts to his tongue to the world around him. Claire did enjoy her well-spoken colleagues, as it beat those who sweated their ways through even the simplest of presentations and meetings. Someone who knew how to speak had a working brain, which was always a pleasant surprise to find in any bureaucracy. However, a well-spoken person was also someone to be wary of. They could make really ugly ideas sound pretty. Claire had a feeling that her interactions with this man were going to be interesting if anything.

"No better motivation that threat of death or mutilation," Claire responded, the smallest of smiles playing at curling her lips at the end, the consonants of her words clipping her teeth pleasantly. He was clever - she wondered how much of his job he actually did. The more clever the man, the more he figured how to get out of work, it seemed.

But as he spoke, she realized he seemed to be one of the exceptions to the rule. The observations she had made of him led her to believe he certainly ran things according to his own ideas of work, but he also seemed to know what was actually going on in his department. Perhaps she was actually working with the real deal with this man. Which was incredibly frustrating, after everything an everyone she was dealing with here over the pond. She was starting to have an inkling of hope about her time here and she was actually, dare she even admit it, a little excited to begin work. Finally.

And something to do. "I'll give you one of my best men, and then one of the one's I'm trying to get to, you know, function. I have a man named Carlton who is very quick, very clever. Alone, he would probably fulfill your needs. I'll get one of our trainees to help him. Get some of that work-or-die experience you mentioned."

He continued on, leaving her with the response of, "My conscious revolves around results, rather than the means to achieve them. I assure you, I do not live for paperwork or red tape." Yes, she might have as soft spot for office supplies, but she also liked to get things done.

She smiled slightly at his last words, before holding a hand out. "Only that I never caught your name. I'm Claire Bishop. You?"

Fred never really had liked work in school. When there were books to record facts and dates, easily available to reference whenever you please, why bother memorising them? So he picked a job that required none of the mindless jabber, the learning of and thereafter spouting of information, the nine-to-five desk. His job, was logic; and excitement. Nothing else. Of course the earlier steps on the ladder had required some amount of half-assed clerical work, but a solicitous comment here and a well-placed wink there, had enabled him to skip most of the tedious mumble-jumble right to the good parts. And when there were interesting, good-looking people to work along side you, the job just got a hell of a lot better.

"Most obliged." Fred allowed himself a quick smile, all flash and teeth and charm, in spite of the professionalism. "Send me half-bred donkeys if you will; just make sure they get the job done."

Then of course, she had to mention her name. His constantly tapping feet (they were currently on Track 3 of the newest Cacophony album, the beats were simply brilliant in their utter unpredictability), stilled suddenly. His eyes rose from the box; sharp and ever so slightly narrowed.

Claire Bishop. C. Bishop. He knew his contact from Law Enforcement was new. 'Some America-returned bimbette' , as Myers had casually dropped in his upperclass Brits voice. America-returned. Just like him.

"I'm not an Auror. I suggest you watch your tone. If I were an Auror, I guarantee you I would have left to nanny already."

He had written many inter-Departmental memos, back in the days, to innumerable people. He hadn't ended up in a highly entertaining slash annoying banter with the receiver in any of them, save one. It had saved him from certain death of boredom on many a slow, dragging, lacklustre day; which was perhaps why he had been a little more snarky and insolent than usual. So, he hadn't forgotten. Besides, he was an Unspeakable. It was his job to pick up on tiny things that most people failed to pick up on, or remember.

This could be a coincidence. Too bad he didn't believe in them.

So instead of shaking her hand, Fred rolled out a smile truly striking in all its indulgence, and reached over to plop the Rouen puzzle cube on her outstretched palm. "The answer to the puzzle is usually a spell. Try out most of the ones you can; its indestructible. Maybe fresh perspective will help."

He had to get that out of the way. She might disagree after she learned his name, after all.

A little snicker burst its way out of his lips, as free minded and independent as its owner. Fred shook his head slightly, "And after we were getting along so well too." Then raising his eyes to the surely befuddled woman by now, Fred cocked an eyebrow and drawled out, smile as audacious and brazen as you please, "Fred Weasley. Still read the Quibbler?"

The man was suddenly very still, as though she had just given him the missing piece to figure out the trick of the puzzle box. Brief confusion flickered across her face, before she quickly stilled her expression into one of gentle neutrality – it was never wise to reveal much to a stranger, anyway. She watched him, trying to pick up what she could that might suggest a reason for this shift. Nothing had changed, however, except for her introduction. Something about her name must have surprised him, which now began to bother her. What reputation was attached to her name to create this change in demeanor in one of her colleagues?

Had false rumors already begun? Ugh. Gossip.

He dropped the puzzle box in her hand, and her other hand came up to caress it. She gently shifted it so that it was caught between her thumb and middle finger, barely balanced but snug nonetheless. She shifted it in the light, taking in all of the small details, her mind already beginning to catalog potential spells and tricks that may coax the tricky little box into revealing its secrets to her. She viewed this not only as a test from the man, but some sort of extension of camaraderie. As though he was giving her an opportunity to prove that she was worth working with, and that he really was hoping she would be.

However, he continued to surprise her. He snickered a little and then revealed his name. It might not have hit right then, but the Quibbler comment was enough for her brain to immediately make the connection. F.W. Her hands drooped, and then dropped to her sides entirely, her right hand clinging to the puzzle box. “Oh, f*ck me. You?”

It was intriguing that her professionalism could be so quickly lost.

And that, my lovelies, was a perfect lesson on how professionalism was a sham of a word.

The woman had been smiling, just a hint of amiability on those lips, not more than thirty seconds ago. The instant that realisation struck her was almost entertaining- you could literally see the lightbulb moment, her eyes narrowing then closing off with remarkable speed. She swore with the same clipped, brisk efficiency that she used to talk about her Department, and it only broadened Fred's grin. He could literally see the spiky words scrawled across his eyelids now- You're so right. You clever, clever man. Take me now. He had smirked at those words for a good half-hour, then.

He didn't put much stock in handwriting analysis, himself. Always found those graphologists and psychology people prattling on about it on TV to be high-class pillocks. Still, something in those letters had prompted him to imagine C. Bishop to be a black-suited redhead, or perhaps a particularly fiery brunette. Controlled and all prim-and-proper for as far as possible of course, but with a delectable spark. He hadn't quite pictured this portrait of blonde proficiency and sensibility- but that single swear word assuaged all doubts.

“Oh, f*ck me. You?”

His foot resumed tapping out the beat, his now empty fingers seeking out a translucent Remembrall on the mahogany desk, used as a paperweight. They found it, fastening around it and making it spin quite adeptly. His voice couldn't quite resist the opening. "You know, you really need to stop propositioning me like this, Miss Bishop. Its most unbecoming." Her words literally begged for it. How could he not comply? "Not that I blame your taste."

But of course, work above everything else. The woman seemed intelligent, he would be loathe to compromise on that, just because of a few cheeky words. So he blinked twice, almost innocently. "Regardless of your....inclinations, I hope this won't be any sort of obstruction or problem in our future dealings." Hopefully that would work. Pacify her.

A lie. Fred Weasley had never been able to pull off 'innocent' in his entire lifetime.