It is raining the night of the Meeting.

A storm had slowly gathered over the passing week, air so thick and heavy you could drink it through a straw sitting atop London like an invisible blanket in the height of summertime. July had seen very little rain than usual - it was saving it all for tonight, it seems - and it’s all down to luck that the first crackle of lightning and booming rumble of thunder occurred long after the majority of the city had gone to bed. It is the kind of storm you can feel within your bones long before it arrives, the kind that turns your dreams frightful, an omen of the terror and beauty that is to come. It is the perfect weather for a Meeting such as this one.

A man skulks in the darkness. If anyone in the surrounding buildings were to peep their heads out their windows they would see him as a shadow, a body of something illuminated by the rain-dimmed street lamps and flashes of lightning. As it happens, the man is no something; he is an employee of the Ministry of Magic, invisible to those who don’t know any better, a small but no less valuable part of the Meeting, and, most importantly, late.

Like a cat he slinks through the rain - which evaporates above his head in a manner most peculiar to the untrained eye - and makes his way over to a dripping phone booth. Slipping inside, he shakes himself down before typing in the code to access the secret depths below.

The booth jolts and moved downwards. In a crackle of light, the man catches his face reflected in the glass windows just before it disappears under the surface of the street. He looks tired, haggard, and wet. He forgot to shave before he left, and the evidence black stubble along his jaw and upper lip make him frown. He’ll surely be berated for his appearance; this is, after all, a Meeting of great importance. Semi-drenched work robes, worn leather shoes and the remnants of a beard that refuses to grow properly are not exactly suitable for the occasion.

He feels as if he should change, and if there were more hours in the day he would do so. But time is unforgiving and he is already so very late. A brush down of his hair with a shaky hand and a quick spell under his breath to evaporate the water in his shoes is all he can do for now.

They’re already waiting for him. As the phone booth lowers into the wide open entrance of the Ministry, the man curses under his breath. He was supposed to be here minutes ago, held back by the weather and his own trepidation, and the scowling faces of his superiors do little to quell the pressure building at his temples. Rain, or perhaps sweat, itches at his forehead, and he rubs it away hurriedly. The booth hits the emerald tiles of the Ministry floor with a soft thud, and the doors creak open loudly in the almost empty hall. He steps out on shaky legs and wobbles over to stand before his evidently discontent superiors.

There are two of them, one tall and one short, and they stand beside the great, golden statue at the centre of the entrance as if they were part of it. The taller is dressed to the nines in the most lavish and ridiculous robes you could ever see, long nose and mouth hooked in a sneer equally as ghastly. Decorated from head to toe in a kaleidoscope of colour and exotic feathers, combined with his large size and pinkish face, he resembles some kind of large, garish peacock, and the man would laugh if he were not so afraid of doing so. The shorter, and older, is easier on the eyes, dressed in a duller, yet no less expensive set of deep navy robes that compliment the gold of his frames, an altogether smarter, more respectable look. Both are noticeably unimpressed.

“Mr Morrison,” the shorter, more appropriately dressed man addresses him with an exasperated drawl, “how nice of you to join us.”

“Sorry, Mr Gregory, sir,” Mr Morrison quivers back. Stood beside them, he appears like a drowned rat. A small and frail man, he’d never be able to afford such spectacular attire. “It was the rain, sir, took me off guard it did, set me back a few, you see.”

“Yes, it did rather come out of nowhere, didn’t it?” says the taller man. His sneer sets even deeper into his fat face, and he waves a bejewelled hand dismissively. “But the presence of the impervious charm around that head of yours betrays you, Morrison. You seem to be at least slightly capable of the most basic magic, so a little bit of rain, in my opinion, is no excuse. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Gregory?”

“Indeed, Mr Merryweather. If not for the anticipated arrival of our guests, I’m sure disciplinary action would be swift.”

“Most swift indeed.”

It is hard not to crumble under the combined heat of their stares. “M-Mr Merryweather, Mr Gregory, sirs, I-“

A faint whistling cuts him off. Mr Gregory looks to his wrist, where a thin, gold watch, encrusted with tiny little crystals in the shape of a small mousy face squeaks at him to ‘get a move on.’

“Our guests should be arriving any minute now,” the old man sniffs, tucking his watch away. “Let’s get the artefact and head up to your office, Merryweather. Hopefully we’ll catch them in time.”

Mr Morrison trails behind his superiors as they make their way to his individual area of work: the Department of Magical Artefacts. It’s a tight squeeze in the elevator, what with Mr Merryweather as large as he is, and the journey seems to take forever despite lasting a minute or so. The department walls are lined with prim wooden office doors between great steel vaults of all shapes and sizes, but only one steel door is guarded by two aurors, who nod their heads at their boss and step aside as they approach.

“I trust your head of department explained to you the climate surrounding tonight’s events?”

Mr Morrison swallows the lump in his throat. His boss was just as confused as he was when she read to him the request, but there is very little you can do as a low ranking member of the Magical Artefacts department when the heads of both International Magical Cooperation and Magical Law Enforcement request your presence in the Ministry after business hours. He wants to question why they chose him specifically and not someone of more importance in the department, but he knows it’s not his place to argue such things. After all, the fearful outbreak of scrofungulus amongst his coworkers following the arrival of an artefact from a cursed Egyptian tomb is most likely the answer.

“She did, Mr Merryweather, sir,” he stutters in reply, trying his best not to stumble over his feet. “Explained it to me well.”

“So you are aware of the gravity of the situation?”

“I am, sir, very much so, sir.”

“Then you must know that there is no room for mistakes, or second chances, right, Mr Morrison?”

It’s more of a statement than a question. Unsure of how to answer, Mr Morrison stays quiet and digs inside his robes for his wand.

The vault in question, Vault 21, is very small, about the size of a Tupperware box. Mr Morrison is one of three workers relegated to Vaults 45 to 67, and as such has never seen inside this particular vault his entire career. He had to learn the unlocking spell from a coworker, and as he waves his wand over the surface of the vault door, he worries that he’s remembered it in all the wrong ways. Mr Gregory’s hot stare and Mr Merryweather’s tapping feet do little to calm his nerves. If he messes up, there will be no way to retrieve what’s inside without waiting for his extremely sick and contagious coworkers to be cured in a weeks time.

Fortunately, the door clanks open. It swings slowly on its hinges, and a weird kind of heat blows out from inside, as hot as fire itself. All three men lean forward, and despite the skin of his face feeling awfully close to burning, Mr Morrison can’t find it in himself to look away.

Inside the vault is small red stone. It’s about the size and shape of a quail’s egg, a transparent shade of ruby, and it seems to be the cause of such immense heat despite its unassuming size. Thin black lines run through it like veins, and an odd glow emanates from deep below its surface. Mr Morrison has never seen anything like it.

Unprompted, he reaches out to take it in his hand. It warms him immediately, and he shivers as gentle heat spreads through his arm and down to his chest, soothing his nerves like a cup of tea on a cold winter's day. He turns it over in his hand, surprised to see it is no longer glowing. It is no less beautiful. What a lovely stone, so delicate and smooth. Such a shame to be locked away where no one can admire it properly.

He hears someone clear their throat behind him. Startled from his reverie, Mr Morrison spins around to show his superiors the content of the vault. Mr Morrison’s eyes are immediately drawn to the rings on Mr Merryweather’s thick fingers, each one larger and more expensive than the next. They’re not as stunning at the gem from the vault, but Mr Morrison finds them delightful all the same. How had he not noticed them before? They’re beautifully cut, and frightfully pricey. He wonders how they would look on his own hands, slender and boney though they are, or how they would feel out of their bands, tumbling through his hands like crystal sand…

“What a spectacular little artefact,” Mr Merryweather sighs. “Such a shame we have to give it back to the Chinese, don’t you think?”

He holds out a little metal box, which Mr Morrison takes shakily, slipping the stone inside. The physical heat is gone, but his chest still flushes with warmth, comforting despite the anxiety snaking around him. He holds the box close to him as Mr Gregory dismisses his aurors and leads the trio back to the elevators. Mr Morrison spies the diamonds in the Head of Law Enforcement’s watch. They too are a sight to behold.

His superiors do not take the box from him, which he is thankful for. Something about letting it go makes him feel rather down. Each second that passes is another closer to the moment he must hand it over to someone else - a most distressing thought. He doesn’t see why the Ministry has to give it back anyway. It’s not like they were the ones that stole it; the muggles are entirely at fault. If anything they should keep it as payment for rescuing it from certain destruction during the war. The elevator stops at the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and they shuffle down to the far end of the corridor, where Mr Merryweather’s office sits like the gallows.

Mr Merryweather’s office is as ridiculous as his robes. It screams of a man with too much money on his hands, a man who buys anything he sees just because he can. Every inch is decorated with magical tomes and trinkets from a vast array of foreign lands, all sealed within delicate glass boxes. The walls are a sickly shade of purple and green stripes, and his desk acts more like a glorified stand to the stuffed body of a cross-eyed Persian cat than it does a work space.

What catches Mr Morrison’s eye is the case of exotic jewels that hang on the far wall. Such pretty little things, shining in the light of the fireplace. Mr Morrison could only dream of owning such things. So beautiful, so shiny. They’d look lovely next to the stone from the vault.  And the ones from Merryweather’s fingers, and Gregory’s watch. They would indeed, all those different shapes and colours, all together in one set. So pretty in a row. What he would give for jewels like them. He would care for them like his own children, not keep them in a cage to be ignored. Mr Merryweather owns so many fine things already, and he respects none of them, just throws them away when they are no longer beautiful enough for him. He doesn’t need such wonderful gems, no he doesn’t, not at all, not when Mr Morrison himself has never had such riches, not when he can -

The fireplace bursts to life in a brilliant flames of green. Emerald soot and lime coloured smoke pool out from it, trailing along the carpet like rippling water. Three men emerge from the flames. Their robes billow around them, and their faces, set firm like stone, leave Mr Morrison cowering in his hole-filled shoes.

They’re going to take it away .

As the dignitaries from the Forbidden City brush themselves down of soot, Mr Merryweather puffs himself up and steps forward to greet them with an all too-enthusiastic handshake.

“Ambassador Li, welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Thank you for gracing our presence so willingly during this troubling time.”

The Ambassador eyes Mr Merryweather cautiously before returning his greeting. “Thank you for your humble welcome. Our Minister will be pleased to hear we have been met with such warmth.”

“This here is Mr Gregory, our Head of Magical Law Enforcement,” Mr Merryweather trills, gesturing to the man beside him. “His officers have been guarding the artefact of interest diligently to ensure its safe return.”

A pulse of fear bleeds through Mr Morrison’s veins. Even an idiot could see that the Chinese wizards are wise and powerful, with knowing eyes reminiscent of the ancient philosophers and sorcerers of old. What would such men want with the stone anyway? It’s suspicious that the Forbidden City would demand its return after centuries of silence on the matter; what if it possesses dark and dangerous magic that could be used against them? Or, Merlin forbid, that they destroy it?

No no no no no no no no no no no no-

“Such care cannot be ignored. Our Minister will be most thankful.”

- No, the stone is safe here. Mr Morrison’s hands tighten around the metal box. He can feel the stone beat softly like a newborn child in time with his own raging heart. The stone must stay with him. He can protect it, only he can keep it safe, only he can save it from destruction, it is his, it is his, it is Mine-

“What is wrong with this man?”

Five pairs of eyes burn into him. The stone quivers, afraid.

“Mr Morrison? Are you alright?”

His vision flashes red. They won’t take you from me. I will keep you safe. I will hide you from their greedy hands. They do not understand how precious you are. They will not care for you like I can. I will protect you, I will protect you I will protect you I will protect you-

“Mr Morrison! Pull yourself together!”

His hand is already around his wand. One of the men - he doesn’t know who for his eyes are blinded by brimstone and rage - reach towards him to take it from me they can’t take it from me, and his reaction is instant. Words fly from his lips, uncontrollable. Blasts of sickening green light fill the office, and it is silent once more.

You are safe. I will protect you.

He doesn’t look back as he dashes from the office. The stone purrs, content. It is happy to be with him, happy to have a new owner. No one will take care of it like he can.

 

You are m̷̭̥͈̓̊̓̽̔̏͊̈́̚i̵̲̝͙̰͙̅̀͂̍̿͆̓n̷̲̳͕̻̪̬͎̜͚͍̉͊͂͋͑̂͑̄̈̓͘͜ë̴̮̿̎̓̈́̈́͗̎̀́̎͘.̸̖̖͔̦͐̏̑̑̐̔̕̕ͅ

 

Miles above, the rain continues to fall. If anyone were to look down at the cobbled streets while watching the storm, they would see that the shadow has returned. It has risen from the ground with eyes consumed with fire and a heart that glows with the strength of a thousand suns. Surely to see such a thing would frighten one to death.

But as it happens, no one is watching. And the shadow slips away into the night.

 

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hello my lovelies! i am back with the long promised sequel to my exo hp!au yayyy !! now that i'm about to graduate university, I finally have the time to write it all !! i'm so excited to be starting this new journey with you all and I hope you're all excited too <3

nothing much happens in this chapter lol - this is just a prologue after all - but i can assure you that things will kick into gear very soon. i've been planning this story for months and have a lot lined up for you guys, so pls anticipate !!

as always, feel free to come yell at me on tumblr, or in the comments if you have any questions or simply just want to scream about stuff, i always reply and i'm always up for a chat!