Croaker

Edmund Croaker opened his eyes and saw his bedside clock. Nine forty-five. Somewhere in his head, a thought was trying to be heard, but a layer of sleep had not yet been shed. Just as abruptly, he heard the clock's shrill ringing. Finally, the thought that had been waiting patiently in his mind could present itself after his other senses returned to him.

I'm late for work.

Croaker had to wait for his reason to return, however, for him to sit up in surprise.

Holy Burning Cinder Fury of Crimson Chaos Fire, I'm late for work!!

It had been quite a long time since he was late for work, quite a long time indeed. Surprisingly nimbly for his age, he jumped out of bed and put on his usual work attire. Funny, he mused, those Muggle sleeping pills I took last night must've worked. He honestly hadn't thought they would - not many Muggle things he experimented with ever did. Few people knew that tinkering and twiddling with Muggle objects was a small hobby of his. Not a full-scale obsession like that bloke Arthur Weasley had, but he was not above buying the occasional knick-knack (or, in this case, drug) from time to time.

Putting on his trademark rose-tinted monocle and scrunching his hair into his patented ponytail, he glanced at his reflection and dusted a bit of flint off his vest. His appearance was so familiar to him that his mind didn't register it (it was, after all, his body, and he had had eighty-nine years to get accustomed to it), but for the sake of moving the story along, I will describe to you his looks. He had a sharp, pointed face, and equally sharp brown eyes. His nose was big and crooked, and he had never had any facial hair. The most striking thing about his visage was the admittedly arbitrary and aforementioned rose-tinted eyepiece. He didn't need the monocle -- it was just something he liked to wear.

He rushed down the creaky oaken staircase to the kitchen, where his lifeblood lay. He would've been too groggy to read any files at work without it. Besides, some of the effect of the pills was still lingering. Overall, he couldn't function without it. Yes, he continued to live due to this most wonderful of all potions. Wars had been fought over it, and livelihoods salvaged because of it.

Coffee.

He downed the blessed concoction and felt the caffeine invigorate him. Croaker could have sworn that the coffee machine had almost beckoned him to make sweet delicious java and consume it with almost unsettling glee. As an afterthought, he hurriedly munched on a piece of bread that was lying around on the counter near him, ignoring the flies -- he had to have something to eat, too. He brushed his teeth as he ran towards his fireplace, spitting out toothpaste into his priceless Ming dynasty vase in his haste. He picked up his wand off the mantle, stuffed it into the pocket of his pants, and threw some Floo powder into the fireplace.

"The Atrium," uttered Croaker, standing in the Floofire.

As he traveled through the green vortex, he contemplated on the exhilaration of waking up late. He concluded that he would have to do it again some time.

He landed in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, conspicuously tardy. There were little to no people coming out of the fireplaces forty-five minutes late -- he was practically the only person on the entire floor. Except, of course, for the watchwizard

Edmund power walked across the shiny, wooden floor, past the decorative Baroque torch brackets and around the Fountain of Magical Brethren, over and across the Sterling Stairs towards the watchwizard's desk.

The watch-wizard, whose desk plate read Simon Munch, Desk Attendant, had a dazed look about him, as though nothing could possibly be more boring than his job. It was a sort of contagious gloom.

"Ahem," Croaker cleared his throat (which, thankfully, did not sound like a croak).

Munch did not react to the sound. Croaker waved his hand animatedly in front of his heavy-lidded eyes. Nothing.

"Munch!" shouted Croaker.

He seemed unaware of Croaker's presence.

"MUNCH!"

Not so much as a blink. Only the fact that the watchwizard was breathing prevented Croaker from declaring him dead. Croaker was losing his patience -- he had no tolerance for men so lax about their occupations. He put his hands on the semi-asleep attendant's shoulders and shook him violently.

"Wake up, son!"

The young man shook his head and his eyes widened in surprise when he realized who his aggressor was.

"Mister Croaker? ... Y-you're late!" he exclaimed, astonished.

"Yes, I, Curator of the Hall of Prophecy, Unspeakable Extraordinaire, former Head of the Department of Mysteries and mentor of the current one, Calvin Fog, am late. What of it? Surely I can't be the only person who was late today?" retorted an exasperated Croaker.

"Y-yes, but you ... you're never late ..." trailed off Munch.

"Just check me off and let me through, Munch," said Croaker impatiently. If being late means I have to put up with this nonsense, thought Edmund, then I'd better get up on time every day. Nah, he amended himself, I'll just report him to Bagnold.

One of Millicent Bagnold's campaign quotes had been, "Inadept workers at the Ministry are ruining your lives. Elect me as Minister and I'll replace them with true, unadulterated laborers -- ones who don't slack off and don't take bribes." Most voters (English wizards over age 35, who were suffering due to an economic depression) fell for her empty promises (in the fifteen years she'd been Minister, Croaker couldn't remember her ever giving anyone a pink slip) and had chosen her over Roger Hatch, who had been running for reelection and had been, in Croaker's opinion, a much better candidate for the job. At least Hatch knew that "inadept" wasn't a word. It didn't really matter who was the Minister of Magic, really, because he or she had no real power over the Department of Mysteries. Only its members could navigate the Department without getting lost or had the authority to do so. Croaker grinned at the thought.

The lift stopped at the ninth floor.

"The Department of Mysteries," echoed the omniscient female voice.

The doors slid apart. Some owls flew into elevator as Croaker stepped out. They had a manic look about them, which made him feel uneasy. They're going to have to create a better way to send memos, thought Croaker. There are always droppings all over the place.

He went down the hallway and veered to the right at the first fork. He opened the large green door at the hall's end and entered the File Room. His workday always led him here first.

There was a File Room in every department, and they all looked exactly the same. If one had to choose a word to describe it, it would have to be the word "dull". There was not a trace of magic in the room -- only tables and cabinets packed to the brim with files. The walls, ceiling and floor were all black -- not a rich black, but a wholly overwhelmingly, boring black.

Boring as it was, Croaker had to sift through the mountainous piles of papers nonetheless. Every document was copied and issued to every department's file room. This was supposedly to decrease the time in which each department got the necessary files and to create backup files in case some were lost, but it ended up making the daily search for the needed documents a tedious and lengthy event. To make things worse, the piles were often in no particular order (the temps were too lazy to organize them). Being Curator of the Hall of Prophecy had its perks, like being able to dismiss pesky reporters by telling them the answer they wanted was classified or always being the first in line, but this, thought Croaker, definitely wasn't one of them. He was just praying for another cup of coffee (he had been there for nearly half an hour, in which two other workers got the file they needed and hurried off), when, all of a sudden, he found what he was looking for.

"Petition for a Kneazle Vaccination for Scrofungulus ... what's scrofungulus? ... Elderly Woman Splinched Onto Another in Lancaster?... ugh, didn't need to know that ... Kelpie at Loch Ness Resurfaces, Obliviators Sent to the Scene ... bet they're tired of doing that every other day ... Broom Handle Polish Shortage ... sheesh, what a crisis ... Request to Cancel "Mork and Mindy" From Muggle Television ... how does stuff like this get here? ... You-Know-Who Kills Three Squibs in Normandy ... crap, I hope I find one before I get more bad news ...

"Prophecy # 3086 Recorded"

He had finally found what he was looking for -- a new prophecy. It had been the first one in months. Normally, on a prophecy-less day, Croaker just checked the shelves in the Hall to see whether or not they were intact, indulged in absorbing conversations with Calvin, and wandered around the Ministry in search of fun. Today, however, wasn't a prophecy-less day. The prophecy had to be spun into an Orbacle, which had to be enchanted by the Caster to addle anyone who tries to touch it, and then rolled down a tunnel onto the appropriate shelf.
Croaker looked down to read the prophecy. His jaw dropped.

Sybill Pallas Trelawney to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, November 22nd, 1980
Hogshead Inn
" THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES, BORN TO THOSE WHO THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES. AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT, AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER, FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES. THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES. "

Edmund was speechless. Seers usually foresaw much less important premonitions. Ones that came to mind were "Tonight, at the clock's second stroke, the Woolongong Warriors shall defeat the Moose Jaw Meteorites in the Quidditch semifinals." Or, "You will get food poisoning on the morrow of twilight." Taken aback as he was, he knew immediately what he had to do...

He didn't even check to see if there were more prophecies (there probably weren't anyway); he just dashed as fast he could down the hall to the door opposite, opened it and entered.

He was in a circular room whose walls were lined with dozens of identical rectangular doors and floating candles with blue flames. The entire room was done in rich black marble. Not hesitating, Croaker shouted "Open the Hall of Prophecy!" On cue, the correct door opened. Croaker dashed through it and met the Caster at the entrance.

"Rook ... wood," gasped the old man, bending over to catch his breath (his red monocle fell off, but he didn't notice).

"Mister Croaker, are you okay?" asked Rookwood, his face looking worried but his voice emotionless. "I was just leaving."

"You must ... cast this ... prophecy quickly." wheezed Croaker. "Extreme... ly impor... tant."

Rookwood turned to glance at the paper his senior was talking about. He had a similar reaction to it -- his bearded chin drooped down, his orange eyes widened in shock.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord? Eh, er, you ... you're right!" said Augustus, thinking quickly. "We must get this to the Soothsayer at once!"

With that, they ran toward the end of the hall. They sprinted past shelf after shelf, Croaker with an anxious look, needing to make the paper into an Orbacle as fast as possible, and Rookwood with a look of deep concentration, as though planning what he would do once they reached the Soothsayer.

The Soothsayer was a highly magical machine, a mesh of the most advanced technology with the most ancient enchantment, located at the end of the Hall. The augurs of Stonehenge, some twelve hundred years ago, had created a city built and tended entirely by prophets they called Haruspex. When the Visigoths raided the city from the Lowlands, pillaging and sundering, some Seers managed to escape, carrying only their most sacred artifact, the Soothsayer's Orb, which amplified their abilities. Over the years, the Soothsayer's Orb had passed from owner to owner, until an enterprising wizard named John Werny tried to use it on one of his machines. It miraculously worked and transformed it into the Soothsayer. The automation, Werny soon discovered, broadcasted nearby prophecies. He also found that those prophecies could be trapped into containers such as toy boxes or cartons of milk to preserve them for later. The Ministry bought the machine off of him, and it has resided in the Hall ever since, turning Britain's precognitions into paper, and then into spun-glass Orbacles.

Row fifteen ... Row thirty-one ... Row sixty-three ... Row one hundred two ... Closer and closer they came to the end ...

Then, they finally reached it -- Row one hundred twenty-one. It consisted of a single, solitary shelf, housing not Orbacles, but the Soothsayer.

"Well, we're here. Let's get to work, Augustus, this prophecy needs to be protected as soon as possible. Imagine what would happen if it were in Voldemort's hands." He shuddered at the thought, but mostly at the name.

Rookwood, however, did anything but. He grinned a little grin at the thought, which turned into a huge grin, which turned into maniacal laughter. Croaker was utterly bewildered.

"What's so funny, Rookwood?" he asked sheepishly. "C'mon, I can take a joke."

What he saw next was definitely not a joke. Rookwood drew out his wand and pointed it at his throat, then pinned him against the wall.

"Puniolos," decreed the Caster, and a blade shot out of the end of his wand.

"I was just imagining what would happen when Voldemort would do if he got his hands on this, sir." He yanked the file out of Croaker's hand, who yelped in surprise. He had clearly caught him off his guard. "Oh wait, that's right, I won't really have to call you 'sir' from now on, will I? You know, once you're dead?" Rookwood's grin returned as he stifled Croaker's attempt to grab his own wand by pressing his more into Croaker's throat. "One more move, half-blood, and you will no longer have the luxury of owning a head. Now where was I? Ah yes, I was envisioning the gifts Voldemort will give me once I hand this to him."

"Rookwood, you traitorous heathen! I should've known!"

"Ah, but you didn't. I was the Dark Lord's spy since my initiation into this cadaverous building! I was promised power beyond power if I relayed to him valuable information, and now I will attain what is due to me! Untold riches. Boundless strength! Unlimited prestige." He spat on the ground of the hallowed Hall in contempt.

This desecration incensed Croaker like nothing ever had. How dare he spit on the floor of the Hall of Prophecy!! How could he have the audacity? Croaker's eyes became redder than when he had his monocle on. Unfortunately, he couldn't do anything in this predicament. He desperately wished he could drink some coffee to soothe his nerves.

Rookwood took out Croaker's wand, and twirled it in between his fingers, just to show him that escape was impossible.

"There is no escape, Croaker," said Rookwood, beaming with a preposterously huge smile. His wand was steady and his will, unwavering. He would perform his first kill. The wriggling little half-blood would deserve it. And he deserved to give this disgrace of their race what he deserved. He steeled himself. It was now or never. Two simple words. "Avada--"

Suddenly, the Soothsayer beeped and glowed an incredibly bright light, as it always did when it sensed a new prophecy, blinding Rookwood. He dropped both wands and fell to his knees in agony.

"AvadaaaaaAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Croaker took advantage of his adversary's plight and picked up his wand.

"Rookwood, if you're going to kill someone, don't spend all day talking about it. Entanglo." An electric-blue beam shot out off his wand and wrapped around Augustus' body, binding him. Then, for effect, he laughed in the same manner Rookwood did.

"Who has the last laugh now?"

Edmund was sure to thank whatever god wizards pray to that there were two prophecies in one day, to drag Rookwood's face over his own spit, and to pick up his monocle from off the ground before going to get the authorities.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Croaker was asked to oversee Rookwood's interrogation after dragging Rookwood's body down the stairs to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ("Oomph!" "Ack!" "Ouch!"). It had been a rather exciting day, but when he arrived home, all he wanted to do was calm down with a nice, warm mug of espresso. He Flooed to his place after the Department-wide party in celebration of a captured Death Eater, donned his pajamas and loafers, and walked gingerly toward his beloved coffee machine. He took a cup, poured the water down the hatch, and pulled the lever.

Nothing.

Panicking, he frantically pulled at the lever again.

Still nothing.

Then he noticed what was wrong. But it was too horrible to say. Too hideous to describe. The coffee machine was missing; he was gesturing in midair.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"
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Gary Farcry to His Cat, Georgie, November 22nd, 1980
#22, Privet Drive
A FLOCK OF EXPERIMENTAL THIEF OWLS FROM THE COMMITTEE FOR EXPERIMENTAL CHARMS WILL BE SENT TO BREAK INTO A MAN 'S HOUSE AND STEAL HIS COFFEE MACHINE.