Chapter 176: Time and Prophecy

The regular offices of the Department of Mysteries were tucked beyond a separate, lone black door. The only other exception was an additional office in the Time Room, the same place where Death Eaters had once held Mrs. Selwyn captive. At present, this secluded space had become Sherlock's den. The rumors were true – the Department of Mysteries was sparsely occupied, limiting their interactions with other divisions to a minimum, thus retaining their aura of mystery. Even the Minister for Magic scarcely crossed paths with it. As for Sherlock's office – it was spacious enough for a solitary occupant, with different sections cordoned off. The Ministry offered room and meals, making it theoretically feasible for Sherlock to dwell indefinitely.

After dragging his scant belongings into his new quarters, Sherlock meticulously inspected the antique timepieces strewn across the Time Room. With countless areas off-limits, even to its own personnel, the Department was immense. No specific instructions on which rooms to avoid had been provided by Mrs. Selwyn; instead, she explained that access to confidential rooms was sealed off by magic – doors that refused to open were a clear sign of lacking permission.

Within the confines of the Time Room, numerous doorways beckoned. Sherlock found himself drawn to an intriguing bird figurine in the heart of the room. The figurine, resembling a hummingbird, oscillated between its life stages – hatching from an egg, maturing into a bird, and reversing to an egg once more. The sculpture was akin to a living hourglass – symbolizing time's cyclical nature - its relentless march forward and the unending cycle of death and rebirth present in nature.

Tucked in a corner of the Time Room was a glass cabinet preserving a multitude of golden necklaces. These represented the pinnacle of time study in the magical world – Time-Turners. Based upon intricate alchemical skills of bygone eras, the art of crafting these devices had been lost to time, with key components unable to be replicated due to a loss of raw materials. Fortunately, Time-Turners were not expendable and could be used repeatedly and so these Time-Turners before him were the same few the Ministry has possessed for centuries. However, despite their awe-inspiring abilities, they were feeble compared to the one Sherlock wore – their effectiveness extending merely to a five-hour rewind.

Moreover, exhaustive tests had established the limit; a single revolution of an hour hand lead to an equivalent hour's reversal, with no person capable of staying in the past longer than five hours. Yet, the arrival of time-travelers did not alter historical events despite the shared temporal space. This argument, however, was challenged by a certain scholar within the Department. The established chronology remained unaltered was the consensus of those who'd embarked on the journey and returned without any notable changes.

But what of those who'd successfully altered history? Were they to reappear in their original time? Or had they subtly altered the perception of history, creating alternate realities with completely different outcomes? If a new world were to emerge, would the saved entities retain their previous identities? Regardless of the scenario, if history was indeed tinkered with, would anyone even know?

Even though history was undeniably unchangeable, that did not diminish its allure as the central focus for wizards engaged in temporal research, and dissenting voices were aplenty. For Sherlock, he didn't have a strong fascination for delving into the past - the time-turner the fairy had crafted at the end of the rebellion, taking him back to this particular temporal point, was certainly much more advanced compared to the apparatuses in the Time Room. To this day, Sherlock found himself daily casting high-grade counter-charms on it to suppress its self-repair mechanism. But the Time Room was filled not only with similar oddities, but also contained other items of unexplored purpose. Placed on a cabinet next to the time-turner, a dazzling array of hourglasses caught the eye.

Sand was perpetually flowing from top to bottom, yet strangely, the amount of sand above never lessened, nor did the volume beneath ever increase, creating an uncanny representation of time's infinite nature. Situated in amongst these hourglasses was a massive model resembling the most primitive timekeepers. Unlike the others, its 'sand' possession a distinct peculiarity - the top half contained shifting silver particles that, upon passing through the narrow midpoint, transformed into golden grains, creating a mesmerizing prism effect that compelled the viewer into a hypnotic trance.

The Time Room's research focused on expired time, but Sherlock was primarily interested in correcting the timeline, so he couldn't find much of value here, not least because the majority of the objects' functions far exceeded his understanding.

After circling the Time Room, he began attempting to open the doors leading to other areas. There was a total of four doors that connected him to unknown rooms, besides the main black entrance and the partitioned office door. Sherlock pushed at one door but it remained steadfast. He similarly tested the remaining three. Eventually, he managed to open two. One of them was a storage room crammed with all manner of old clocks and hourglasses, seemingly devoid of power and discarded here.

The room behind the other accessible door stood in stark contrast to the Time Department's aesthetic. Towering, ice-cold and cavernous, it bore a striking resemblance to a cathedral. Huge shelves, stacked with grey, dusty orbs, filled the space. Each orb rested beneath a yellowing label displaying enigmatic moving light or indistinct darkness reminiscent of burnt-out bulbs. More candlesticks were spaced along the shelves, their flames shared the blue hue of the high, darkened ceiling.

As Sherlock navigated among the towering shelves, he scanned the aging labels below the orbs. "1432, Edward Charles," "1943, Caron Felices," "1123, unknown," "unknown, unknown." Some orbs glowed subtly from within, while others were lifeless and dim. After scrutinizing the orbs for some time, recognition dawned on Sherlock. The Hall of Prophecy. The orbs arrayed on these shelves stored every prophecy collected by the Ministry of Magic, spanning from ancient to modern times. Despite some orbs appearing inert, most retained the discernible content of their prophecies.

The Hall of Prophecy, sensibly, resided next to the Time Room; the main hall outside embodying the elapsed time, while this chamber represented the time of the future glimpsed by wizards. Sherlock moved about the place with an air of expectant curiosity, spending a full day there. He left the Ministry of Magic at dusk, his first day having been relatively leisurely as Mrs. Selwyn had yet to assign him work before he'd settled on a main direction of research. However, this calm wouldn't last, at most for three days. If he didn't make a choice by then, Mrs. Selwyn would have to find him a task. After all, he was on the Ministry's payroll; he couldn't remain idle for long. 

During dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, Eddie arrived with a somewhat solemn expression. As they ate in Sherlock's room, Eddie began to talk.

"The people behind Argus, the Flint family, have started to throw their weight around. Someone in the Ministry tried to test my loyalty today, attempting to bribe me. They didn't want me telling the court anything that could potentially harm Argus."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Why didn't they come find me? I'm the most crucial witness, aren't I? After all, I was the one who caught the actual perpetrators."

"They probably knew that neither you, nor Mrs. Selwyn—the two most important witnesses — could be bribed, so they didn't bother," replied Eddie. 

Sherlock showed a face of regret, "And here I was looking forward to someone attempting to bribe me."

Eddie filled a cup with juice for Amy, "They're cautious and don't expect to fully exonerate Argus. Their goal is to lessen his punishment to possibly reduce his sentence to three years."

"If he genuinely gets held for only three years, then the Ministry is beyond help," Sherlock commented.

Eddie sighed in response and ceased speaking. Sherlock had nothing more to say either. Even if Argus was completely freed, it wouldn't affect him. These internal matters of the Ministry were between Eddie and himself only because Eddie thought that Sherlock was genuinely going to pursue a career there. However, Sherlock knew better. His purpose for joining the Ministry had nothing to do with these power struggles and as soon as he got what he wanted, he'd leave.

"I'll bring Amy with me tomorrow. If you want to visit her, you can come directly to the ninth floor. My office is in the Time Room."

Amy was breaking a sausage with knife and fork and looked up at Sherlock, "Is there anything interesting in there?"

Sherlock patted her head and picked up a paper airplane she had folded a few days ago from the table. "In there, there are many, many paper airplanes, and they can do just as you imagined, flying in mid-air."

Amy's eyes instantly gleamed, her legs swinging with excitement.

...

Further north, in the wilderness surrounding Carlisle, a city in England close to the border of Scotland, an invisible manor stood amidst a seemingly endless field. Inside the manor's living room, a young man lay prone on the ground, as if trapped in a world untouched by any source of light. The dim, yellow illumination failed to lend an ounce of warmth; coldness reigned supreme, permeating the entire space. Surrounding him were countless Death Eaters donned in their characteristically vile iron masks. 

Among those who didn't wear masks were infamous names like Bellatrix Lestrange, Igor Karkaroff,  Rabastan Lestrange... Their faces had adorned the Prophet's headlines countless times, and they also sat atop the Ministry's Most Wanted list. These wicked individuals stood in the tag of a jumble of respect and fear, their heads lowered, daring not to steal even a glance at the man lounging in the lone armchair.

This man, garbed in a dark robe, was gently tapping the armrest of the sofa with his pale, nimble fingers. "Have Argus and his cohort been apprehended?"

His voice was not gruff or deep but conveyed a sense of delicate softness. Yet, no one in the room dared to take his gentleness at face value. Every soul held their breath, unwilling to disrupt his words with even the slightest sound. On his knees, a young man with his head bowed to the floor in deference was inches away from the man's feet. His voice was laced with an impassioned devotion that was ordinarily absent.

"Jugson and the rest were thrown straight into Azkaban, and Argus will be on trial tomorrow. The families behind him have already started pulling strings within the Ministry of Magic, attempting to sever any connection with us!" 

"Such actions are nothing short of betrayal!" Bellatrix cried out vehemently. In that silent room, only she had the courage to interrupt so audaciously.

"Being alive is more useful than being dead," the man murmured in a voice faint yet intimidating, "He has not exposed any of us. This measure of loyalty, I can appreciate. But incompetence, that is an unforgivable sin."

His tone was not cold, but his words sent an icy shiver down everyone's spine. With that, Argus' fate was sealed, and no one could alter it. The young man, who looked up to the man in black as a father figure, pleaded enthused, "Master, let me deal with that wastrel!" 

The man in black lightly stroked his hair, offering a mollifying reply, "You're far more valuable than him. You can't afford to take such risks; there are far more vital duties awaiting you."

The younger man, quivering lightly, bent to kiss the man's shoe, muttering, "Your wish is my command, Master." 

"Room number 7 does exist. The only one aware of it is the head of the Department of Mysteries, but such crucial intel is not usually laid out in plain sight, getting it out of her will necessitate... other means." 

"I'll make her drink Veritaserum, then she will spill everything she knows," the young man assured.

The man in black laughed softly and shook his head. "No, no. The human mind is a remarkably unsafe haven. She won't foolishly store such valuable information within it."

The younger man lifted his head in confusion, failing to comprehend the man's cryptic suggestion. As the man tenderly stroked his wand, his face bore an amiable smile, but his eyes were filled with cold indifference and sinister depths.

"She would have stashed her memories away elsewhere. The mind isn't a secure vault. Only by extracting memories can one hide them somewhere truly unaccessible." 

"Track it down, retrieve that memory, unlock that room... Bring back whatever is inside for me!"

All around, wizards, masked and unmasked, fell to their knees in reverence. Their voices were raised in a feverish pledge, "Yes, master!"