Recruitment

If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @

[ https://www.patreón.com/fictiononlyreader ]

The link is also in the synopsis.

.

-*-*-*-*-*-.

.

Quinn sat in his favorite cafe with a book in his hand. He neither drank coffee nor tea, but he did like eating cakes, and while Polly and Ms. Rosey made perfectly delicious cakes, this cafe baked delicacies so addicting that Quinn had suspected them of adding drugs as an ingredient. He had gone as far as to check there was anything suspicious— but other than some great quality ingredients, he had failed to find any other strange things.

The fork cut a piece of his lemon yogurt cake and floated itself to Quinn's mouth as he continued to read his book. He let out a teenie bit of food moan as the lemony goodness exploded in his mouth.

"This is so good!" He turned to the shop counter and threw a hearty thumbs-up to the employee behind the counter, who thumbs-upped back with a smile.

He returned to his book with forkfuls of cake gently placed into his mouth. But then suddenly, a man came and sat in front of him, at his table.

Quinn didn't look up from his book as he said, "There's an empty table there; if you don't mind can you vacate my table. That'd be much appreciated." Another forkful of cake landed on his tongue.

"I actually meant to sit with you, Mr. Quinn West," said the man. "I've heard a lot about you and wondered if we could have a little chat."

Quinn finally looked up at the uninvited man and chanced upon the clean shaved man dressed in a brown suit with a darker tie and a Panama hat, looking at him with sparkling eyes that stood out as the only defining feature of the man.

"And who might you be?" he asked.

"Apologies for that. How rude of me to not introduce myself. My name is Croaker. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Croaker. . . and?" asked Quinn, but he already had an inkling. . . now he already, for a fact, knew who this man was.

"Just Croaker for now."

"Well then, Mr. 'Just-Croaker-for-now,' if you want to have a chat with me, please schedule a meeting with me through my secretary."

"You don't have a secretary. . . do you?"

"No, I don't have one."

"Then there's no way for me to schedule a meeting."

"Exactly. Finally, you get it; I thought you were simply slow on the uptake. While I would like to return by saying that it was a pleasure to meet you, it would be a lie if I said so. Now, if you'll please leave me alone to my cake."

Quinn returned to his book, but Croaker didn't move from his chair; instead, the man called for the waitress and ordered himself the same thing that Quinn was having.

"Good choice," said Quinn, "but what're you doing? If you want to enjoy your cake, do so at another table."

"If you'd just listen to me, I'm sure you'd be interested in what I have to say."

"Not interested."

"Would you lose anything if you listen?"

"Yes. My incredibly precious time."

"I have a job offer for you, Mr. Quinn West."

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm not interested in entering the working society yet."

"Have you heard of the Departement of Mysteries?"

Quinn clicked his tongue and put down his book on the table. "You had to say it, didn't you, Saul Croaker."

"Oh, you know me?" asked Croaker, briefly surprised.

"Of course, I do know you, Professor Saul Croaker. You're a premier researcher in the study of time. Have a law named after you," Quinn said to Croaker, who kept smiling. "Professor Saul Croaker's law. It states that five hours was the longest someone could travel back in time without the possibility of serious harm to the traveler or time itself.

I have varying thoughts on the matter, but your research was a fascinating read."

"Why, thank you. But what about your varying thoughts. Where do you disagree with my theory?" asked Croaker.

"There's no mathematical logic behind my thinking, but I believe that a person doesn't need five hours to send time and the future events into disarray. One rash decision made under rash emotion or an action taken in the heat of the moment," he snapped his fingers, "that is all it takes to plunge everything into chaos."

"Ah yes, the human factor," Croaker nodded. "I used a base assumption for my research. Actually, I'm currently trying to study how the spectrum of human behavior and actions affects the stream of time."

"Interesting."

"It is, isn't," smiled Croaker. "Are you interested in the research of time, Quinn?"

"Can't say I'm not."

"Then would you like to join the Department of Mysteries?"

"No, thank you."

". . . Quinn, you realized what this offer represents. A very few people ever get a look from our department, much less an offer to join."

Croaker reached into his coat and took out a black leather folder/binder. Quinn's eyes lingered on Croaker's coat, which shouldn't be able to hold a large folder. It made Quinn think that Croaker(or even most Unspeakables) had pockets similar to him. Then his eyes went to the black leather folder— it was something he recognized fairly well.

"A Hogwarts record folder," said Quinn. Room of Rewards, the entryway to the Sin vault, held records of every student that ever studied at Hogwarts— everything from report cards, achievements, professor's recommendations, behavioral accounts, among other various things. Quinn had seen his own black folder, and he was pleased to read what was written there.

"I have to ask who gave you this?" Quinn pointed at the folder. "Who's the one inside Hogwarts who has the in with the Departments of Myster. . ."— he paused mid-sentence— ". . . it is Professor McGonagall. She's the one who recommends students and provides you with black leather folders."

Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. Except for the magical privileges that Hogwarts bestowed upon the Headmaster, she was in control and had access to pretty much everything in Hogwarts. She would be the most likely person to provide the information to the Unspeakables. Moreover, it was McGonagall who provided Hermione with the Time-Turner, something strictly controlled by the Department of Mysteries— that one incident was all Quinn needed to form his conjecture.

"Man, who knew McGonagall would be the," he made air quotes, "recruiter inside Hogwarts— who knew the upright Scottish witch would be the one."

Quinn watched Croaker, who sat with no change in expressions, which confirmed that he had been correct. Everything from Croaker's face to his body language was perfect— too perfect— which itself became a fault.

"I don't blame her. For a clock to function properly, all the cogs must be placed in their appropriate places."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Croaker denied Quinn's conjecture at once."We don't usually recruit straight out of Hogwarts. Children who come out of school are still too immature and inexperienced to be part of our operation but," he opened the black folder, "you-you. . . I have never seen this from someone just out of Hogwarts. When I first saw it, I thought it was a joke, but after confirming twice and vetting it thrice, I couldn't see it as a joke. Prefect. . . Headboy. . . Organized a multi-school Quidditch League. . . Hosted the Tri-wizard Tournament. . . Perfect grades. . . and there's Aid In Distress— or AID— the last one was is a shining star on your record. You have done so much in seven years, Quinn. And the thing that binds everything together— your aptitude for magic."

Croaker stared at Quinn and continued after a pause, "After seeing all of this, I, on behalf of the Department of Mysteries, extend an offer to you to join us as an. . . Unspeakable."

Quinn breathed out, leaning into his chair. Unspeakable. He knew what power that designation held. It was a department with autonomy within the Ministry— so much so that even a Ministry of Magic couldn't shut down. It was the place where mysteries of magic were studied, with the envelope being pushed forward.

With all that, Quinn responded, "I appreciate the offer, but I'll have to refuse."

". . . Quinn, we're a very exclusive organization and wouldn't extend this offer again. If you chose to refuse this offer now, it'd be gone like sand in the wind. . . it won't return. Do know what you're missing is something you'd regret missing. We are at the bleeding edge of magic. We have direct sight to the truth.

So, I'll extend this offer for the second and last time. Join the Department of Mysteries."

There was a silence between them. Both sat in the outside area of a cafe with people walking by them, unknowing about the conversation that was happening just a few paces away. That an Unspeakable and a member of the wealthiest family in the country were sharing a table beside them.

"I still refuse," said Quinn.

Croaker sighed as he closed the folder and put it back. "May I know why did you refuse?"

"I won't lie by saying that if I had accepted your offer, I would've gotten access to resources which would be tedious for me to procure. . . a culture of research and innovation. . . but all of that would've come with its restriction— I would've lost the freedom that I have right now." Quinn stopped Croaker from interjecting, "Whatever you say, it is still a ministerial department with a budget— and I'm sure the Department of Mysteries have their own deliverables that they need to meet to maintain that budget because I'm sure the bureaucrats and politicians would've chewed down the flow of money with how your department operates.

I don't want to spend the next decade as a grunt who is stuck with handling those mandatory tasks. I want to learn whatever I want— travel whenever and wherever I want— pursue whatever interest I want to overtake— and if I join you, it will take me a long-long time, maybe never even, to reach that level."

". . . And you're saying that you'll be better of on your own."

A smile stretched on Quinn's face that could only be described as self-confident. "I'm a West, Mr. Croaker. I have no shortage of funds." He pointed at the black folder, "What you have in that file is not all of me. It's just one side of me. Yes, I spent seven years in Hogwarts, but that doesn't mean that Hogwarts was all I did in that time. I'm going to travel and meet people at the very top of their fields— learn from them and improve."

Quinn's expression turned to a half-smiling- half-serious. "I'm going to recreate the golden age of magic in this era— my era." He then smirked, "And about this being the last offer, I don't think so. You'll approach me again. Even if you don't, I'm sure your department and I will be collaborating on some projects."

"That's some arrogant thinking. The golden age? That's some big talk."

"It's only arrogance if I'm wrong. As for the big talk? I only aim for the best."

Quinn stood up. He had finished his cake, and the discussion had also come to an end. "Mr. Croaker, please have anything you want. I have a tab here; ask them to put everything on there."

"That's nice of you."

Quinn smiled and was about to leave when a thought struck him and spoke to Croaker. "If you're looking for new blood. I'd suggest that you target Ivy Potter. . . I'm sure you know who she is. Ask Professor McGonagall for her file, I'm sure she'd be a valuable asset to your organization."

"Thank you, but you don't need to consider yourself with."

"I'm just pointing you to a good recommendation. You don't want to have another Augustus Rockwood situation."

Croaker's eyes turned sharp as he looked at Quinn, who chuckled, "Oh, that hit a nerve. I'm sorry."

Quinn didn't wait for a response and walked away with Croaker watching him from his chair.

.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

.

Quinn West - MC - I shall not be part of the secret organization.

Saul Croaker - Unspeakable - Has studied time magic.

FictionOnlyReader - Author - I have been wanting to write something like this for a long time. Maybe, Croaker will return later.

.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

.

If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.

The link is in the synopsis!