Unspeakable Things

August, 2027

All natural light had been expunged by the incoming shadows that drew a dark blanket over the sky and specked clear stars where once there had been bright, expansive blue and large, fluffy, white clouds. The long, thick and heavy curtains were drawn over the tall window panes that let the morning, afternoon and early evening light into the Department of International Affairs and as witches and wizards filed out, flames were deposited in jam jars and suspended aloft, spreading enough light for those who were still working to see the pages spread out before them. The hours were whiled away with the scribbling of quills, the pouring of coffee and eventually there were barely any employees to be seen. All was quiet, the humdrum of the wakeful hours long forgotten.

A soft emission of air broke two scarlet lips apart and the tumult of warm breath sent a spindly, languid lock of golden blonde hair that seemed alight in the glow of the flames above, fluttering absently into the air. It lingered, as though suspended, for the barest of seconds before tumbling back into place, the static pieces peeling along after the main body of the curl. A long finger reached out and the pale pink nail took the curl, arching it back behind the curve of an ear plucked along its circumference by metal loops and the interspersed jewel flicking off of the lights. The hand fell, pale and almost boneless, spreading across the faded, yellow parchment strewn across the desk top. Typewritten pieces mingled intimately with flowing script bitten into the surface of the parchment with the sharp brass point of the long, barn owl’s feather quill cradled in her left hand.

The back of the desk chair bent backwards to accommodate the sudden pressure of a body thrown against it. Blonde tendrils spilled like rushing water down overtop and the shoulders upon which it had stood firstly sagged a little, growing smaller underneath the structured blazer they’d been concealed in. The neck was long but weary, a knot ebbing beneath the surface, betraying the long, impractical hours spent bent over the desk, the popping vertebra that unfurled as the back moved into the frame of the chair further illusion to that fact. The chin was bent, focused, red around the end where it had been rubbed back and forth in thought, a line crossing it where the nail had pressed in too hard but the absent mind failed to take note. A second emission of air, of weariness rather than anything like irritability, broke forth and the quill was abandoned with a click on the surface.

Firm palms pressed down upon the desk, the wood sagging absently, and the sinewy arms flexed as the spikes of heels found their way to use once more as small, dainty feet were slid back into the coal coloured material. Rising to her height, an indistinct little tower, hands passed their way over the starched blouse, fingers coupling together to pop open a few of the buttons, relieving her skin of suffocation, betraying a glimpse of the black lace beneath. The hands lifted and the heels clicked on the tiles as the body shifted, hips swaying side to side, propelling the female figure from behind her desk, through the offices and out into the halls.

The same, aforementioned nail found the button of the lift and the bronze and emerald doors shuddered open. The sound of the heels on the floor changed as it moved from tile to metal and they turned in their own small pirouette as the hand reached out, demanding the list to transport her down to the archives. The lift shot off, the sudden movement making her reach out to brace her frame against the running rail of the inside. Then, as though no time at all passed, the lift jarred and she was spat from the compartment at the other end. She was enveloped in the steady darkness of the archives, one which was punctured here and there with a few lamps that had not been switched into nothingness. Nevertheless she lit the end of her wand, shaking the piece of wood in the air once, twice, until the tip began to glow.

The clip-clop of the heels upon tiles returned as she moved into the jurisdiction of the researchers. The wand guided her past office and office, past the occasional slumbering worker and the plates and potions apparatus left open, strewn over work benches and tables. There was one office, right at the end, where the windows were still alight with the warmth of a human being inhabiting its quarters. As she neared, her wand sputtered out and she poked it into the space between her waist and her skirt. Her hand found the window and the nails trailed softly along it as she came to the door, her hip bobbed against the frame and she peered inside, taking in the creature pored over his work.

The long nose was pressed almost up against the book over which he was curled, the deeply set eyes roving across the pages, taking in every word. The mouth was small yet, she found, not at all, his lips wide and full, the sides bearing the ghost of a former smile. Like hers before, his desk too was laden with the burden of an impossible work schedule. Distantly, the doors of the archives and the Department of Mysteries were thrown shut, the comatose worker finally having roused himself long enough to return home, to sleep in his own bed. As the sound reverberated, Alice Rousseau adjusted her position in the doorway.

“It’s late,” her voice, heavy with the purr of her region, the deep, rampart protected commune of Avignon. “Do you not have anyone to go to bed to?” Her eyes flicked across to the door, the imperial blues taking in the name on the placard mounted there. “Mister Weasley?”