July 25th, 1889 — Magical Museum of Miscellany

Charles was excited, or rather beyond excited. Today he was going to be able to view something unique, something special, something foreign, and perhaps even something bizarre. He paced the welcome center with bated breath as he pondered over what it could be. Based on Mr. Fisk's owl sent to the museum he knew it was African in origin. Perhaps it was a magical shield, or a potion that when exposed to air could kill a hundred men, or a chameleon loin cloth!

His beastly gaze turned to the doors as someone arrived, but it was merely a mother and her child who upon seeing him weren't quite sure what to think. His physical features denoted a monster, but his dress which was tailored to fit his form was an exquisite suite and robes in a dark blue. "Good day madame." He said with a courteous bow of his head and a small smile.

The child smiled back and waved, but the mother frowned and pulled her along. Charles sighed and looked back to the door, where was Mr. Fisk?


Arven Fisk

  

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The artifact was secure in Arven's pocket, wrapped carefully in cloth. It felt warm against his hip, and if you listened very, very carefully, you might hear it buzzing.

Arven recalled seeing a copy of the Prophet on the breakfast table at the Fudge's home in Sussex, the headline blaring WOLF-MAN FOUND IN BARTONBURG. It had been a rather cruel piece to which Arven had not given the time of day, but as he entered the museum and caught sight of Mr Charles Operine, he could not help but think so it's true. Arven's heart went out to him, but he quickly tried to shake off the sympathy and focus instead on why they'd arranged to meet today.

"Good afternoon, Mr Operine", he greeted gruffly, approaching with a friendly hand outstretched.

  

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Charles perked up once more as a man walked into the welcome area of the museum and he smiled, though it was an odd looking smile and did the man's aesthetics no favors. "Good Morning Mr. Fisk," He said shaking the man with his own hands which was like a man's save for the clawed like nails of a particularly amber hue. He may have appeared as a monster but he was quite a cultured monster.

"I understand you have brought something rather exotic, I dare say I can hear it buzzing." Since the potion incident he had pretty good hearing he had discovered, though he was still working on making it selective. He gave a bit of a laugh bits of animistic huffs coming in between through know fault of his own. He dare thought this meeting would go nice, the man was only a tad shorter and it appeared as though he would be less intimidated by him. Ladies were a different story all together.

"It is from Africa yes?" He said as he ushered him towards a room off to the side that was meant for employees only. "I've read quite a bit about Africa, the Zulu and Swahili are fascinating cultures. I would love to travel there someday myself, though, that may prove difficult." His joyfulness faded for a moment but then he took a look at all the amazing items they had in stock and turned his mind back to work. "So, any special preparations before presentation?" He found magical items could have a bit of a mind of their own. Some required darker conditions, or lighter conditions, or certain metals to not be present.

  

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Their shared enthusiasm for the matter at hand made it easy to move on from the initial sight of Mr Operine — and certainly Arven's instinctive pity vanished like mist in a breeze. After all, this young gentleman was a curator in a grand museum, and his eyes were alight with passion for his vocation. By many, he was surely to be envied.

"Very impressive — I can only hear it when I hold it to my ear", Arven admitted, brows raised. "Must be getting old", he quipped in a murmur, then gladly followed the curator through to an office.

"Yes, I found it on a bank of the Benue River. But level your expectations, sir — while I believe it is something ancient and extraordinary, it is also... broken".

Arven removed the item from his pocket, placed it on the desk, and gently unraveled its cloth wrappings to reveal a small stone rectangle. It had a faint orange glow, and even Arven could hear the slight buzzing now — or was it more of a hum? Upon the stone was engraved tiny words in a Niger–Congo language. "I brought it to an elder in the nearby town. She said it has mystical properties; in particular the power to expedite the growing of plants and trees in small areas. On arid earth, it could be a Godsend. A livesaver. But..." Arven leaned his hands on the desk and looked down at the stone artifact, "it is simply not working."

  

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Charles said nothing in regards to the man's utterance about his age, but there was a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Broken?" So a puzzle to be solved?! Wonderful, Charles loved riddles and puddles, and indeed the hat had considered him for Ravenclaw, but alas Hufflepuff became his home. "Well I do like a good challenge, I mean what is history but a riddle in the sand?"

He waited for the man to unravel the item and set it before them. A curious glimmer mixed with a since of fascination took hold of Charles features. He certainly was no monster, as some may easily presume. "Looks to be of the Niger Congo dialect, but somewhat under these markings are more markings..curious. I don't know nigerian congo very well and even less those scratchings, but we do have a book on both, I'd date the age as somewhere around neolithic age, looks to be something that originated with the birth of magic. Man's first efforts to tap into their abilities via religious rites." He moved to a shelf and pulled a lever which opened a passage to a large library, "Somewhere in here..." He said looking around the massive assortment of books. "Would you mind checking that pile to the left while I look through this one. If we can crack the code so to speak, maybe we can fix it, do you know which tribe you spoke with?"

  

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It was fortunate that the young curator saw this as a puzzle to be solved, and not as a frustration. After all, plenty would curl their lip at a broken object, perhaps unwilling to have faith that it might ever be valuable when fixed.

Arven took a step back, arms folded loosely as he watched Mr Operine work his magic. Not literal magic at this time, but mystical musings and educated impressions. ”Neolithic”, Arven repeated, quirking a brow. ”Blimey”. That was much older than he’d thought.

He unfolded his arms and attended to the pile of books as instructed, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but keeping an eye out for any tomes on African languages. ”Yes, it was a Mossi group. And Mr Operine…” he looked up from his search, observing the gentleman’s reaction as he said: ”if we succeed in the repair, I would like to send the artefact back to them. It could do a great deal of good in some of the more impoverished areas of West Africa.”

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   Charles Operine

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"Of course." He stated in regards to returning the item to a place more suitable to its abilities. "Sometimes treasures are not finished making history when we come upon them. I think rather readily that such is the case." He found an old book here and another there and in a matter of thirty or so minutes had rounded up a stack. "Old magic works a bit different. It generally hosts a rich elanorate ritual because those capable of creating such energy jad no formal training or even tools necessary for directing. Not like ours anyways, wands."

He set the piled the books on the table, "Find anything?" He inquired. He began flipping through a volume bimself on ancoent amulets.

  

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Arven was a little relieved that his new acquaintance had no problem with returning the artefact to the Africans. He wouldn't have been able to stop Arven from doing so, but his cooperation — and, dare he hope, his friendship in this adventure — would go a long way.

Still, it was a rare thing. England was a colonialist nation after all, and few colonialists allowed foreigners to keep their treasures.

"Hm, a book on African languages — and one on lost languages", he replied, and added them to Operine's stack. Arven could be scholarly at times, but here he was ill-qualified. He left the leafing to the curator.

"So you think it may be repaired or stimulated by a ritual?" Arven asked curiously, interested in Operine's musings on old magic.

  

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Charles knew he was a bit of an odd badger, but he was of the opinion, that history was never finished, and if the strands of fate could be helped along, then why not. Especially if it was for a good cause. He really liked the idea of being the hero of some small tribal community without having to spill so much as a drop of blood, he hoped.

There was a bit of a, "Hmm, " after that thought and he went to start sifting through the pile of books. "Yes, essentially, though I must say some of the rituals feel a bit silly? After all how many gentlemen do you know of today's standards dancing in a circle wearing a loin cloth and shaking a rain stick embued with rocks from the aboriginal magic plains of Altjira?" He gave a laugh at the thought and then sighed, "That might also be a problem, we may require other items of value, so I dare say this may take more time then simply a day."

There was momentary silence as he began digging. Finally an "Ah ha!" arose. He motioned Fisk over, "Would you say the congo symbol painted on here looks more like picture A or picture B?" Picture A appeared like a serpent. Picture B appeared like legless dragon.

  

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Arven liked the young curator, and had formed such an impression quickly, but he didn’t agree on the alleged silliness of certain indigenous rituals. He had seen such dances before and they seemed anything but whimsical. He knew what Operine was thinking of, though — gentlemen of the Queen’s own England. And on that Arven did agree. Colonists appropriating whatever foreign activity compelled them was not something Arven found endearing.

Accepting that this would not be a quick fix, Arven came to stand with the other tall gentleman and tilted his head for a good look at the pictures. ”I’d say the first. Picture A. It is as consistently slender as a snake, don’t you think?”

  

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Charles went to pick up the artifact and give it a closer look, then got his nose down to the book to further observe the pictures and gave a nod, "Rightly so. Well now based on your experience in the congo what does the snake generally symbolize to the people? I mean I could go on books all day, but I tend to find they give only an outsider's opinion, and we desperately need the insider's perspective."

He moved over to the book on lost languages Fisk had found him and began flipping through it with the help of his wand. Much quicker really to have the magic do the searching. Finally a grunt came forth with a bit of a "hrumm." But he wanted to hear what Fisk had to say first, just in case his own leanings were a bit off track.

  

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The serpent did not have the best rep in many cultures. You just had to step into Hogwarts to see it, where the denizens of Slytherin — the serpent’s house — were gazed upon with great distrust. Sometimes for good reason.

But in Africa…

”In many African cultures snakes are a symbol of rebirth, or rejuvenation. They shed their skin”, he added by way of explanation. ”Hence: rebirth. It makes perfect sense given what we know about this artefact and its capabilities. But as part of a ritualistic instruction I am not sure what to make of it”. A frown line appeared between Arven’s eyes as he mused it over.

”As far as I’m aware, the most powerful and ancient magic associated with rebirth is the flame of a phoenix.” It was a shot in the dark, a fanciful thought. ”You don’t happen to have one perched somewhere, do you?” he added light-heartedly.

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   Charles Operine

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Charles laughed, "Only dead and stuffed I'm afraid." He wish he were joking, but the museum was not a zoo, so the only living creatures it contained was poor saps like him. He gave a nod though as he digested the information given to him, "Rebirth, well that makes sense given the nature of what you were told." He chuckled at his own pun, those never got old.

The beastly man stood there staring at the stone for a time, "Perhaps if the symbol ontop of it means rebirth, then the older scratching beneath it mean fertility?" It was an educated guess. "Like one symbol was meant to reactivate the magic of the symbol before it? And...if that is the case...perhaps we can reactivate it again?"

Blue eyes looked over to Arven, the sky truly was the limit in this situation, off into the imagination beyond. Of course that was the problem wasn't it. They were still trying to figure out exactly what they were dealing with.

  

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Arven hadn’t had a thorough look round the museum, at least not lately, and could not recall seeing a stuffed phoenix — but wasn’t very enchanted by the prospect anyway. Phoenixes were said to be the epitome of life, bright-eyed and blazing. He’d never seen one before, either living or dead, and so was a little disappointed that Operine hadn’t taken his half-suggestion seriously.

He nodded in agreement. ”It certainly lends us hope. But beyond that…” he shrugged one brawny shoulder. ”I am rather at a loss.”

  

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Charles lips twisted in question and his head tilted along with. "Hmm," He puzzled, "I say we will try something fertility like like...burring it!?" He moved one way then the next then came back to the middle, "We need a pot and soil. I'll get the pot, and you get the soil?" He checked. He seemed rather excited while he spoke, like this was some massive puzzle, but not just any puzzle a puzzle that could do good and save lives. Despite his beastly features his eyes were deep blue and held a youthful visage.

  

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Despite the gravitas of their objective, Arven felt rather like a boy again as Operine championed a slightly ridiculous idea. Arven went along with it in a trice. "Alright then", he replied with a smile, already halfway out the door.

He didn’t have to look for long. There was a small, manicured flowerbed just along the wall from the main entrance of the museum. With the most cursory of glances to ensure passers-by weren’t offended by his odd action, Arven withdrew a small flask (previously containing Gillywater) from his pocket and scooped it mostly full with soil. He briefly patted down the hole he left, then returned to the museum, wondering if Operine had already found the pot or if Arven would have to embark on a bit of a search mission.

  

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