章 242: Tough Temptation Turmoil
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A small kindling of green flames burned on a dark stone floor.
Strangely there was no wood feeding the fire, nor was there any sort of propellant spilled on the floor that could be lit to burn a fire with a dim green.
All of a sudden, the green fire roared, its flame reaching above and beyond, turning the dim kindling bloomed into a voluminous blaze of illuminating green. Out of the wisps came the figure of Quinn, the tongue of green licking his body as he walked out of the fireplace. He looked back as the blazing fire soothed back to a calm kindling, but the next second, anger overtook the flames, and this time, it was the tall figure of Albus Dumbledore in all his bearded glory that walked out.
Dumbledore took out the death stick from his pocket as he asked, "I suppose you have been here before, Mr. West." He waved the wand, and all the soot and dust cleared from his clothes, beard, and glasses.
"On the contrary, headmaster. I haven't been here before."
"That's surprising to hear. May I?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing at his wand. Quinn nodded, and with a twirl from Dumbledore, Quinn was rid of all the floo-soot.
"It's surprising to me as well, but this is indeed my first time here," said Quinn taking in the new surroundings.
They stood at one end of a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that were continually moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board. The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. Every few seconds a man or woman would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right-hand side, short queues of people were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.
Halfway down the hall was a fountain. A group of golden statues, larger than life-size, stood in the middle of a circular pool. The tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful human woman, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. The last three were all looking adoringly up at the man and woman (both dressed in robes). Glittering jets of water were flying from the ends of the two wands, the point of the centaur's arrow, the tip of the goblin's hat, and each of the house-elf's ears, so that the tinkling hiss of falling water was added to the pops and cracks of Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom were wearing glum, early-morning looks, strode toward a set of golden gates at the far end of the hall.
"Let me guide you then," said Dumbledore.
They joined the throng, wending their way between the Ministry workers, some of whom were carrying tottering piles of parchment, others battered briefcases; still others reading the Daily Prophet as they walked. As they passed the fountain, Quinn saw silver Sickles and bronze Knuts glinting up at him from the bottom of the pool. A small, smudged sign beside it read:
All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will be given to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Quinn retrieved a gold galleon and flicked it into the fountain. The coin arched in the air before splashing into the water, after which it slowly sunk down, soon joining its lower-valued brethren waiting to be collected for their eventual noble purpose.
Dumbledore led him out of the stream of Ministry employees heading for the golden gates, toward a desk on the left, over which hung a sign saying SECURITY. A poorly shaven man in peacock-blue robes sat behind the desk, reading his Daily Prophet.
Quinn and Dumbledore stood before the desk for the man to notice them, but he was too engrossed in whatever he was reading in the newspaper.
Quinn looked at Dumbledore and then gestured with his chin back towards the stream of people going in and out of the golden gates; Dumbledore chuckled but shook his head. Dumbledore reached his hand and ringed the table-bell, which succeeded in getting the man's attention.
He looked up from his newspaper to see them standing there, and his eye bulged out so much that Quinn worried that they might pop out.
"D-Dumbledore!" The man hastily stood up, knocking his chair to the ground.
"We are here to attend a hearing," said Dumbledore. "Albus Dumbledore, escorting and Quinn West, a prosecutor witness."
"Y-Yes," said the security guard and tapped his wand on the top of a metal box on a table behind him for the box to shoot two silver badges out of its metal chute. The guard handed them the badges and asked them to put them on.
Quinn looked at his badge: Quinn West, Criminal Trial Witness. He pinned it on the lapel of his suit. Dumbledore did the same, pinning his badge on his less-than-usual colorful robes.
"Please step over here," said the security guard.
Dumbledore walked closer to him, and the wizard held up a long golden rod, thin and flexible as a short whip, and passed it up and down Dumbledore's front and back.
"Wand please," said the guard at Dumbledore, gulping at having to ask THE Albus Dumbledore for his wand. If it was before this year, the guard wouldn't have even dreamt of asking the Chief Warlock Dumbledore for his wand, but today Dumbledore was a mere visitor with no part in Ministry, and visitors were required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk.
Quinn watched as Dumbledore handed over the death stick to the random guard, who put it onto a strange brass instrument, which looked something like a set of scales with only one dish. It began to vibrate. A narrow strip of parchment came speeding out of a slit in the base. The guard tore this off and read the writing upon it.
"Fifteen inches, elder wood, threstal tail-hair core — er, age in use. . . unknown."
Dumbledore simply smiled and asked for his wand back. The guard hastily placed the death stick onto Dumbledore's palm and then turned to Quinn to put Dumbledore's wand's nerve-racking check behind him.
Quinn took a silent breath as his hand pushed aside his suit-jacked aside to reveal a wand shoulder-holster with his real wand hanging by his side at the mid-point of his torso.
While this was indeed Quinn's first time at the Ministry of Magic, he wasn't clueless about the check-in procedure for visitors. If he was coming here alone, Quinn simply would have brought his fake wand along and confuded the guard to get past the registration, but that wasn't an option with Dumbledore looking over his shoulder. So after years of confinement in his briefcase, Quinn undid the layers of wards and seals placed outside and inside the storage of his wand to retrieve it for this occasion.
He gripped the wand and the charmed holster loosened around the wand's length, allowing Quinn to pull it out.
It was instantaneous.
The prickling feeling of his wand being just under his arm was tempting enough for Quinn, but to have his fingers wrapped around it was another level of torture that Quinn was not a fan of.
Occlumency didn't help. By no fault of his own, his magic being reached out to the call whispered by the wand was almost seductive. Quinn could practically taste the power, see the realm of possibilities that would open up for him, and once again was reminded of why he stayed away — his will wasn't strong enough to keep him from succumbing to the tantalizing enticements.
He breathed a silent, shuddering breath as the wand left his hand.
"Fourteen inches, acacia wood, phoenix-feather core, been in use for five years. That correct?"
"Yes," said Quinn, barely able to raise his wand above a whisper, his eyes stuck to the wand.
"I keep this," said the guard, impaling the slip of parchment on a small brass spike. "You get this back," he added, thrusting the wand at Quinn.
"Thank you," Quinn stiffly nodded and put the wand back in the holster with great difficulty.
"Thank you," said Dumbledore, he looked at the employee name tag, "Eric."
Off they were again into the stream of people passing through the golden doors. Jostled slightly by the crowd, Quinn followed Dumbledore through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts (elevators) stood behind wrought golden grilles. Dumbledore and Quinn stood behind wrought golden grills.
With a great jangling and clattering, a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back, and both moved inside it with the rest of the crowd. Quinn found himself jammed against the back wall of the lift. The grilles slid shut with a crash, and the lift (elevator) ascended slowly, chains rattling all the while, while a cool female voice rang out on every floor they stopped.
After several levels of stops, only Quinn and Dumbledore remained in the lift. When the door once again opened, the lift (elevator) voice spoke again,
"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."
"This is us, Mr. West," said Dumbledore, and both stepped out into a corridor lined with doors.
Dumbledore led him through a couple of corridors before stopping in front of a heavy oak door. He turned to Quinn and said, "This is the waiting room arranged for you. Make yourself comfortable in there as I go and inform the Auror Office of your arrival. When it's time, I'll come to fetch you."
Quinn nodded and turned to the door as Dumbledore walked away. He looked down on his clothes — with a look, his suit straightened, the tie-clip momentarily loosened for the tie to adjust itself — but the very moment he did it, Quinn winced, using magic with his real wand so close to him, literally below his arm, wasn't a good idea.
He pushed open the door and entered the room to see a man sitting on a side of a large U-shaped sofa (couch) set, reading a magazine that he must have picked up from the stack present on the table square low-table present in the center-well of the sofa set.
The man looked up from his magazine and stared at Quinn with his stone-grey eyes, "So you have arrived, good morning."
Quinn closed the door behind and nodded, "Dumbledore dropped me off." He walked to the sofa set and sat himself down beside the man.
"How have you been," said Quinn, "grandfather."
George West submitted the magazine back to the stack. "I am well, thank you. But imagine my shock when I get a letter from my grandson that he has been named a witness in a criminal case and not any witness, but a prosecutor's primary witness." He turned to face Quinn, "At least the last time you got in trouble outside Hogwarts, but this time you managed to get somehow get into this while staying firmly inside Hogwarts."
"It's not my fault," said Quinn, defiantly, "she closed my business. I had to do something."
"From what I've heard, you gave them months' worth of tapes." George West had his word to get information on confidential evidence.
"She tried it once before, so I had to prepare something in case she tried again. The detention footage was just an opportunity to nail her when she tried to do something stupid."
"This blood quill. . . that the woman used — she used it on you, was it painful?"
Quinn nudged George's shoulder with his own and smiled, "Of course not, I never felt any pain from them. I had prepared for the possibility months before."
George searched Quinn's face for the truth before turning away.
"Your sister wasn't happy with when she heard about this; she wanted to Portkey here and make sure that the Umbridge woman doesn't see daylight ever again."
Quinn chuckled. "I got pages with expletive words sprinkled in almost every paragraph. She really blew up like an exploding snap. Thank the business, she's not here, and I return to Hogwarts in a couple of hours. I'll talk to her when the dust settles."
". . . You can come to me anytime, you know that, right?" George said, silently commenting on Quinn's choices.
"That wasn't ever a question in my mind," said Quinn, "why won't I come to my own family when I'm out of my depth."
George nodded. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?" he asked.
"Hmm. . . well, I have been, how should I say this, well. . . courting, as someone of your age would say — I have been courting Daphne Greengrass. In short, I'm dating Daphne Greengrass."
"Oh," said George, "Oh, is that so. . . well, I hope everything's going jolly, I suppose — dating as they say these days."
"Yes, everything's going well."
". . ."
". . ."
The grandfather-grandson duo had breached this subject a couple of times before, but now that had indeed happened, neither knew how to continue.
The waiting room door opened, and a man dressed impeccably in a black two-piece suit, white shirt, and black tie came inside.
"Mr. West, the trial's about to start," said the man before looking at Quinn and nodding.
Quinn stared at the man for a moment before recognition struck him. "You're Lucas Norgaard," said Quinn, "from Limax Group."
The now-identified Lucas, along with Aksel Thorn and Neil Agard, was one of the three founding members of the Limax Group, the West-owned private security group, or to put it simply, a magical-mercenary group.
"I'm surprised you remember me," said Lucas, "we only met for less than an hour when you visited Denmark."
Quinn stood up and shook Lucas' hand. "I have an excellent memory. I suppose you're here as grandfather's bodyguard?"
"Indeed, I've taken on Mr. West's detail as the point of his personal security." It was tradition for the three founders to spend some time with George every year — so every year, one of them would spend a month in George's personal security detail. It not only helped them keep a solid connection with George, but they were able to meet other people and get new clients and contracts — George West, after all, sat around with many high-profile individuals.
"Then, I'll see you after the trial, Quinn," George said as he got up, "and remember that you don't have to answer any question you don't like; keep your calm, and you'll be fine. I'll be watching, so no need to be nervous."
After that, Quinn was left alone in the waiting room.
A silence descended over the room.
He waited for half a minute before he hastily stood up, all but ripped his suit-jacket off him, and removed the shoulder-wand-holster of his body. He picked up his suit-jacket, removed an expanded pocket that he stuck to the inside of his suit-jacket this morning, and stuffed the wand holster inside the pocket.
Only after doing that did Quinn take a breath of relief as he slowly paced up and down the room. After he felt the worked-up energy calm down, Quinn sat opposite his suit-jacket, his elbows resting on his knees as his entire body slouched forward, his eyes focused on the ground, away from the suit-jacket.
Leaving him alone in a room with his real wand was a bad idea; no one knew it better than himself. He wasn't used to this; he never was. The reaction that a magical focus perfectly attuned to himself brought out of him was the reason Quinn had locked his real wand away.
After years of not experiencing the feeling, Quinn was reminded of how it felt. His memories didn't do the real thing justice, and it wasn't even close.
The problematic part was that Quinn didn't know what to do about it.
Getting rid of it wasn't an option, Quinn thought, not with what was brewing on the horizon.
The door once again opened.
"Mr. West, it's time. The barrister has started to present the evidence. . . . Mr. West, are you alright?" said Dumbledore, seeing Quinn with his head down, his suit-jacket thrown messily on the sofa.
Quinn didn't answer. He got up and walked to the other side of the sofa, picked up the suit-jacket, put it on, and smoothed out the creases.
Dumbledore watched as Quinn turned towards him with his eyes closed before taking a deep breath and opening his eyes. The usual smile appeared on Quinn's face as he said,
"Let's go, headmaster. It's time to bury a toad."
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Quinn West - MC - Opportunity may knock once, but temptation leans on the doorbell.
Albus Dumbledore - Headmaster - Also a witness for the trial.
George West - Grandfather - Short cameo. May make one next time as well.
Lucas Norgaard - Limax Group - I made a brief appearance in Chapter 125.
FictionOnlyReader - Author - Hmm, this chapter sort of jumped at me, and I couldn't ignore it.
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Also, please don't confuse this with Sin-Quinn. He doesn't fear that if he picks up, he will go haywire and start shooting spells without care. No. Quinn fears that if he picks up the wand, he will get the taste of the good stuff, and won't be able to put it down ever again.
Is he right in his fear? Maybe, or maybe not. He might be right and his wandless progress take a hit if he picks up the crutch, or maybe it's all a thing in his head, and nothing will actually happen.
Only time will tell.
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