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Albus groaned as he collapsed into a chair in the cafeteria of the Ministry. Scorpius glanced up from his pasta.
“Going that well, then?” he drawled in that pretentious pureblood accent he’d never managed to shake. Albus rolled his eyes.
“Clearly,” he huffed. He had joined the Department of Mysteries to try and do some good, but it seemed as nothing was ever quite that simple. Scorpius Malfoy, his best friend since their first year at Hogwarts, definitely knew this and was choosing to be obtuse. Scorpius was an Auror in training, and knew as well as Albus did the sorts of frustrations that came with working for the Ministry.
“Alright?” Rose asked as she threw herself into the chair next to Scorpius. She had a covered bowl of salad and a plastic fork and looked less than thrilled, although Albus couldn’t tell if it was about a difficult case or the state of her salad. Rose, like Scorpius, was an Auror trainee, but unlike Scorpius, she wasn’t known to take shit from anyone, and that was all down to her fiery temper.
“Rough day?” Albus commented, raising his eyebrows at Rose’s frown and her sad, sad salad. She glared at him for a moment, her brown eyes narrowed as she stared him down. It only lasted a minute, and then she sighed. Annoyed.
“You’d think,” she snapped, “That being the daughter of one of the most successful Head Aurors in history would make people respect you. But no.”
“Nepotism,” Scorpius commented, waving his fork in the general direction of a table near the center of the cafeteria. “Again.” He rolled his eyes. The table he indicated was full of beefy men in the maroon and grey robes of a trainee Auror, laughing and horsing around and generally being a nuisance. Albus sighed.
“You shouldn’t let them get you down, Rosie,” he admonished.
“Oh, that wasn’t the issue,” Scorpius snorted. “The issue was that Rosie here took it upon herself to curse two of the arsehats badly enough that they’re still in the infirmary. And to make matters worse, it was all in front of Richardson.” Albus winced. Auror Richardson was the head trainer, and had a stick up his arse even Merlin could not have removed. Rosie was definitely going to be reprimanded, officially, if she was unlucky.
“You should work on the temper, Rose,” Albus scolded. “It’ll get you in trouble.”
“Already has,” Scorpius pointed out, oh so helpfully. He had that shit eating grin on his face that made Albus roll his eyes and fight the urge to check the immediate area for prank spells.
“Shut up, you pompous arsehole,” Rosie ground out, stabbing at her wilted salad leaves with a fury.
“Well, well,” Scorpius drawled, raising his pale eyebrow. “What are you going to do about it? Gonna hex me, Rosie?”
It was at this point Albus felt he could tune them out. It was a familiar song and dance, one they’d been practicing regularly since they all discovered hormones at thirteen. He let his mind wander instead.
Albus Potter was probably always meant to be an Unspeakable; the job fit him well. Sandwiched between an outgoing older brother and a vivacious younger sister, Albus had always been quiet and thoughtful, and his curiosity had become voracious when turned towards his books. A Slytherin while in Hogwarts, he hadn’t been particularly popular, but he fit the House characteristics alarmingly well; cunning and ambitious, he always found an answer, if he was looking for one. When he’d read about the Department of Mysteries in his fifth year, it was like something had clicked for him. His Outstanding OWL scores in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes had clinched it; Albus Potter joined the Department of Mysteries straight after Hogwarts and never looked back. Now, three years later, he was up to his ears in the sort of occult rituals and research that most witches and wizards couldn’t even dream of.
Albus had been asked to join a project during his first year, and he had remained on it ever since. There was a particular ritual, referenced in an engraving on a set of standing stones outside Inverness. He had been putting together bits and pieces, translations from the stones and studies of ritual structure and other practices of the period. It was stumping him, though; there was an aspect missing. Something he wasn’t getting, something to tie the ritual together.
“Albus, are you listening to me at all?” Rosie asked, snapping her fingers in front of her cousin’s face. Albus shook his head, trying to dislodge thoughts of the Beauly Stones ritual from his mind.
“Sorry, no, what?” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Rosie sighed.
“She was talking about how she saw Olive Hawthorne in the DMLE offices after she was reprimanded,” Scorpius clarified.
Albus frowned. “Olive Hawthorne?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Rose snorted, “I would’ve thought you’d remember Hawthorne.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Scorpius drawled, waggling his eyebrows. Albus ignored him in favor of his musings on the mysterious Hawthorne. The Grove was a mystery beyond even his Unspeakable knowledge, and the mere fact that it existed itched under his skin. And no, he assured himself, that itch had nothing to do with the beautiful leggy blonde who was the only known Grove witch in London. Nothing at all.
They had gone to Hogwarts with Olive Hawthorne, although she had been the year below them, and a Ravenclaw. As two Slytherins and a Gryffindor, the trio had never interacted with her much, although Albus had been in a few Arithmancy study groups with her. She had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at the beginning of his sixth year, and had drawn Albus’ attention ever since. He couldn’t help but wonder about her. It wasn’t just because she was pretty.
The matter of Olive Hawthorne had slipped from his mind by the next morning; Albus was fully absorbed in his work when Unspeakable Fawley came to find him.
“Potter,” she said as she swanned up to his desk. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said, setting down his pencil. “What did you need?”
Lingering behind Unspeakable Fawley was Olive Hawthorne, looking put together in the black robes of an Unspeakable. Albus had an idea of what Fawley was going to say before she said it. Still, it was surprising.
“This is Olive Hawthorne, she’d recently joined this Department. She’ll be joining you on the Beauly project,” Fawley said, introducing Hawthorne.
“Ah, Hawthorne,” Albus said, scrambling to his feet and extending his hand.
“This is Unspeakable Potter,” Fawley introduced, “He’s currently the head of the project I told you about. You’ll be working with him, closely.”
Hawthorne smiled at Albus, a neat, controlled smile that didn’t actually say much. “A pleasure,” she said, shaking his hand.
“I’ll leave you two to get situated, then,” Fawley said, waving them off as she wandered off to do whatever it was that Deputy Department Heads did.
“Right, well,” Alnbus said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “I assume you understand rituals, then, if Fawley has assigned you to this project.”
Hawthorne took the chair across from Albus and looked down at his work. The large piece of parchment was sketched with the rough ritual circle, all that he’d gathered from the Beauly Stones. It was done mostly in pencil, the only ink used to outline the circle itself and a few of the inner runes. Hawthorne studied it, and Albus studied her. She was almost more beautiful than he remembered, long golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes, high cheekbones and a button nose. He leaned back and tried to ignore the memories of the raging crush he’d had on her at Hogwarts.
“This part, here,” Hawthorne said, pointing to a part of the circle covered with hesitant pencil marks. “None of these are right.”
Albus blinked. “Well, I mean, I had a couple of-”
“No,” Hawthorne cut across him. “You’re looking for a rune, something from the Fews, I imagine, given that the source material is Scottish. But when you go back this far, this old, you ought to look into Pictish sigils.”
Albus sighed. “I’d thought about that, yeah, but I couldn’t find…” Albus trailed off as Hawthorne picked up his pencil and sketched an unfamiliar sigil. “Oh,” he said. The form, the combination of strokes, the implied meaning...it made sense. “That works,” he agreed, after a moment.
“I know,” Hawthorne said, raising her chin. Albus grinned.
“I think I’m going to look forward to this, Hawthorne,” he said.
Olive Hawthorne was probably one of the best hires the Department of Mysteries had ever made. She was so utterly brilliant that Albus was a little bit in awe, pushing himself harder and harder to compete with her.
“That doesn’t track,” Albus argued over lunch, his sandwich all but forgotten.
“How does that not track?” Hawthorne argued, using her soup spoon to gesture. “It makes total sense, in context.”
“In the context of the ritual, maybe,” Albus scoffed, “But in the historical context? It’s highly unlikely. That rune language is from eastern Europe, developed around the Black Sea, and that particular combination wasn’t coming into use until the beginning of the sixth century, well after the Romans had pulled out of the Insular isles, and definitely after the Beauly Stone was carved.”
Hawthorne narrowed her eyes, her lips pulling down. “You have a point,” she muttered. “It might be related, though.”
“I agree that the intention is there; the translation definitely needs to match,” Albus admitted. “We just need something in a different language.”
“Oh Merlin,” Rose complained as she approached their table, Scorpius over her shoulder. “It’s the nerd convention.”
“Oh, shut up,” Albus complained. “Hawthorne, this is my cousin, Rose Weasley, and our friend, Scorpius Malfoy.”
“Nice to meet you,” Hawthorne greeted.
“Oh ho,” Scorpius drawled, peering over Rose’s shoulder, “This is the infamous Hawthorne, then, is it?”
Albus groaned, but Hawthorne laughed, so he supposed it might be alright.
Albus and Hawthorne were stuck in the library of the Department of Mysteries. Well, stuck was probably the wrong word, as it implied that neither of them wanted to be there. Despite the late hour, both Unspeakables were deeply involved in their work.
“Yeah, see, here,” Albus said, pointing to the part of the ritual circle that always bothered him. “We’re missing something here, there’s an action, something you’re meant to add. That much is clear, but I can’t work out what it is we’re meant to be doing.”
Hawthorne stared down at the spot Albus was pointing to. She hummed. “You’re right, there is something.” She leaned back in her chair, away from the materials they had spread out over the table. “How much do you know about where I grew up?”
Albus frowned. “Not too much, really. No more than what’s common knowledge.”
Hawthorne crossed her arms. “Go on.”
“The Grove is an isolated magical community in Wales. It’s well-hidden; not even we know how to find it. It’s also well known for ancient practices, like the old holidays, and it’s rumored that ritual magic is regularly practiced,” he said. There really wasn’t all that much known about the Grove.
“That’s it, essentially,” Hawthorne agreed, “I guess I want to talk about the ritual magic part.” Her blue eyes were sharp in the dim light of the library as they examined him closely. “What are your feelings on ritual magic?”
“My feelings?” Albus questioned, confused. “Uh, it’s generally considered iffy? Morally, I mean, by most. I think it’s because it strays pretty quickly into blood magic and the Darker side of things. I don’t know what I think, exactly.”
Hawthorne sighed. “You’re missing this sigil,” she said, drawing a complicated symbol on a spare piece of parchment.
Albus hummed. He didn’t recognize it immediately, but he had a feeling, if he stayed quiet long enough, Hawthorne would explain it.
“It’s what you’ve been missing,” she said, not moving her eyes from the parchment. “It’s for...it’s a blood seal. You need a blood sacrifice to activate it. It’s not bad, I promise, it’s...the caster usually slices their own palm, uses their blood to activate the circle. It’s not...it’s not bad.”
Albus glanced at her face. She wasn’t meeting his eyes, and her eyebrows were pulled together in that little pucker that she always had when she was worried. She thought he would judge her, he realized.
“It’s not bad,” he agreed. “It’s not bad.” He leaned forward and put a hand over hers. She glanced down at their hands, then up at his face. She smiled a little, just a little, but Albus would take it.
“Most people don’t react well to hearing about blood magic,” she said with a shrug. “We use it in the Grove, and it’s not dark, not the way you people think. It’s just...really, really powerful.”
“I believe you,” Albus reassured her, “People quite frequently misunderstand magic, and they look on it negatively when they do. But magic serves a purpose, at the heart of the thing. The way in which you achieve that, that can vary. I don’t really know, to be honest. But if this ritual is really that powerful, well, cutting a palm or two seems like a reasonable sacrifice.”
Hawthorne smiled at him, and rested her chin on her fist. He smiled back.
“We’re making progress,” he decided, leaning back. “We might actually crack this. With a lot more work, of course.”
“Well,” Hawthorne said, “If we’re going to be spending so much time together, you might as well call me Olive.”
“Call me Albus, then,” he replied.
Rose snorted, tossing the Daily Prophet down on the table. The headline declaring the latest news about regulations from the muggle government. “I don’t know what they think they’re playing at,” she snorted.
“I don’t think they know themselves,” Albus mused, sticking a mouthful of yogurt in his mouth.
“You’re probably right,” she agreed, crossing her arms. Scorpius took the paper to examine for himself.
“This doesn’t bode well,” Olive said, frowning. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. Albus pulled the now-clean spoon out of his mouth.
His father was worried about the muggle government. Albus knew it, even if Harry would never admit it, but he was collecting the Prophet articles, a sure sign that he was tracking the development. He shifted in his chair. Olive was most likely right. The new regulations from the muggle side of things meant that witches and wizards would have to register themselves, if they wanted to cross over into the muggle world. It just didn’t sit right with him.
Olive tilted her head, her blue eyes on Albus’ face as if she could read all of his thoughts there. He smiled at her, a little rueful sort of smile. She bit her lip and turned her gaze down to the cafeteria table. Albus should probably focus less on the development of the strife with the muggle world and a little more on the development of their Beauly ritual. It was hard not to worry, though.
“You like her,” Scorpius teased. He and Albus were stuck in the elevator, waiting for Scorpius’ level, and it couldn’t come quickly enough, at least in Albus’ opinion.
“What’s it to you?” he snapped back, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
“Meh, nothing,” Scorpius drawled, “Except for the fact that your mum has been complaining non-stop about how little you go to your parents’ house. And that puts Rosie in a bad mood, and that, of course, puts a damper on my life. So yes, I suppose it is something to me after all.”
“We’re just busy,” Albus defended. “We’re close to a breakthrough. You know how I get when I smell a breakthrough.”
Scorpius snorted. “I do know that,” he admitted, “Should have been in Ravenclaw, honestly.”
Albus rolled his eyes. “It’s not about her,” he protested. Scorpius gave him a sideways look. “Okay,” Albus amended, “It’s not all about her. I guess.”
Scorpius hummed, but Albus was saved further interrogation by the sweet, sweet tones of the Voice of the Ministry announcing Scorpius’ floor. He didn’t have a crush on Olive Hawthorne, Albus told himself, although it sounded weak even in his head.
There was a cafe on Diagon Alley that Albus loved. His father had taken him there, on breaks from Hogwarts, and they’d gotten coffees and pastries and sat at the little spindly table by the window and watched the flow of shoppers trickle by. It was this cafe that Albus took Olive to, one warm day in late May. They had been working on the Beauly project for six months now, and Albus had decided they needed a break from the confines of the Ministry.
“Order whatever you’d like,” Albus told Olive, “I’m taking this from my Ministry budget.”
“Magnanimous,” Olive snorted, but she ordered an extra shot of espresso in her latte regardless. The cafe was adorable, warm tones and potted plants and white ironwork furniture. It probably would have been romantic, Albus acknowledged, if they weren’t as work-focused as both he and Olive tended to be.
“We’re not talking about work,” Olive warned him as they collected their cups from the counter. Albus snorted.
“Is there any other kind of conversation, though?” he asked, only mostly joking.
Olive rolled her eyes, taking a seat at one of the delicate chairs at a table by the window. “I’m serious, Albus,” she said, giving him a wide-eyed look.
“Fine, fine,” he laughed, taking the chair across from her. He stopped for a moment to think of a topic that they could discuss that wasn’t work related.
“So,” Albus said, deciding and setting down his Americano in the same moment, “Tell me about your childhood.”
Olive raised an eyebrow. “My childhood?” she asked. “Isn’t that a little more personal than professional?”
“Yeah,” Albus agreed, “But at this point, I know way too much about your professional life.” They both chuckled a little at that; the voluntary sixty hour work weeks were something of a running joke between them.
“Okay,” Olive said, “Well, I was born in the Grove. You know that, but I guess...you wouldn’t know that that’s actually pretty rare. Being born in the Grove, I mean. It’s very...I don’t know if rural is the right word. It’s more like...it hasn’t changed in hundreds of years. Going there, you can taste the magic in the air, and it’s like...it’s like stepping back in time.”
Albus nodded along, but...but something caught in his mind. He frowned. Stepping back in time. Time. The circular nature of the ritual. The sigils for wind and the requirement for burning rosemary. The wheel of the year, represented in the Fews. Time. The blood sacrifice, most likely layered…
“Time,” Albus whispered, “Time, that’s it.”
Olive stared, but set down her palmier. “Time,” she repeated, furrowing her brow. Her eyes widened and she stood up. “Time!” she repeated again. Albus nodded. Without a word, they abandoned their break and headed for the Department of Mysteries. There was work to do.
The ritual parchment was spread out on Albus’ desk and the two of them were bent over it. Olive’s hair was pooling over the edges of the parchment, and Albus’ nose was almost brushing it.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see this before,” Albus breathed. “It’s so obvious, when you look at it.”
“When you know what you’re looking for,” Olive corrected. She stood up straight, grinning madly. “I think we might have cracked it, Albus. I think we might have done it.”
“Time,” Albus repeated, “Merlin.” He collapsed into his chair and rubbed at his face, mussing his already wild black hair. “Three years of working on this one ritual, and we’ve finally cracked it.”
“Not totally,” Olive amended, frowning down at a section of the circle that still needed work.
“Let’s get to work, then,” Albus laughed, tucking his pencil behind his ear.
It was nearing midnight. The Department was mostly dark; the only lights were over Albus and Olive’s shared desks. Both Unspeakables were absorbed in their work, and paid no attention to the passage of the hours. Albus ran his fingers down a line of sigils in the book of compiled Pictish symbols, searching. He frowned. There was something there, and if...he turned the book, squinting at a particular sigil. He copied it out onto a piece of parchment and passed it to Olive.
“Look at this,” Albus said, “I think it could fit, but I don’t quite see how.”
Olive took the parchment from him, tilting her head as she examined the sigil he’d drawn there. She stepped back and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath through her nose. She opened her eyes and stared at the parchment.
“What if…” she tilted the paper, and picked up a pencil. She traced the sigil out in the problematic space in the circle. She stepped back. “There,” she said, “It’s about...it’s about preservation. Within the circle, it...it stops time. I think.”
Albus stared, his mouth open. “Merlin, you’re right.” He laughed, running his hands through his hair. “You’re right, Olive, you beautiful witch!” He reached across the table and grabbed her face, pressing his mouth against hers in a moment of impulsive desire. Olive’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer.
When they pulled away, Olive laughed. “I thought you’d never cave,” she whispered.
Albus snorted. “You knew?” he asked, blushing a little.
“Yeah, kind of,” Olive said, rubbing at her nose. “Well, I mean, I hoped.” She glanced up at him with those blue eyes, and Albus really wanted to kiss her again.
“You hoped, huh?” he asked, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“Was I wrong?” she countered.
“No,” he admitted, tugging her in so he could kiss her again.