Dear Reader,
Can I tell you something? A secret, I guess. A great, dirty, horrible secret. Jenny didn’t need to speak with us about Ben’s latest poll results. Or at least, not really. I walked into her office, and she looked stricken. She’s naturally a pale person (And I mean pale. She has blonde hair a pasty skin). But today, she looked even paler than normal.
“Take a seat, Deanna,” she said. Her voice was strained.
I sat in one of the chairs opposite her. Ben was there too, sitting next to me.
“What’s up?” I whispered to Ben.
Ben shrugged. He’s a tall man, with a tan undertone to his skin. He gets out almost as much as I do. His hair is very dark red. Kind of like old rust or dried blood. He turns to look at me.
“I don’t know,” he sounded irritated. “I just got here thirty seconds before you. How do you expect me to know?”
That’s the thing about Ben. He’s irritable. And I’m inquisitive. Needless to say, we’re constantly frustrated with the other.
I looked away from Ben, turning my attention to Jenny. She was gripping her desk for support. She looked as though she would fall if the desk wasn’t there. I feel bad for her. The only other time she looked like this was when another field researcher was attacked by a brain in the Brain Room. That was last year. His name was John… John Fletcher, I think. Maybe it was something else, but I don’t remember, as he quit too early for me to get to know him. He lost an eye. We were all asked to help rescue him. I remember how Ben ran in there and got John out while Jenny threw up and leaned heavily against the wall.
I was scared that Jenny would throw up now.
But she didn’t. Instead, she cast nervous glances to the door, like she was waiting for someone. When the head of department, Amon Anterberry came in, Jenny looked slightly relieved. She offered him a chair, but he refused. So, instead, Jenny sat down and looked at Anterberry worriedly.
Anterberry launched into his speech.
“The position of Field Researcher is becoming slightly, er… redundant, shall I say?” he said, nervously wringing his hands. Flecks of spit appeared on his salt-and-pepper mustache.
“Full-time Unspeakables have begun to research topics that field researchers once did, but from the Department itself.” He paused. “Your position is going to undergo some… er… changes. Really, I’m going to… nay… the Ministry is going to expect you to take on full-time responsibilities as Unspeakables, or they're going to, gradually phase out your positions.
“I understand that being a freelance researcher is, shall we say, convenient. But, it’s only convenient for those who work the jobs. We live in a bureaucracy. It’s not financially beneficial for us to keep people who only work sometimes on a steady salary,” Anterberry said, now wringing his hands together.
Then, dear reader, he said to us, “Either the three of you become full-time Unspeakables, or apply for another job. Be forewarned that those who do not accept this offer, will be asked to resign and have their memories cleared of all the information they have learned in the Department of Mysteries. You have three weeks. Good day.”
Anterberry left, without giving us time to ask questions. The three of us sat in stunned silence. What are we to do? What am I to do?
***
Dear Reader,
It has been a full twenty-four hours since our meeting with Anterberry. I’ve been sitting in the office I share with Ben, throwing wads of paper at the wall. They’re letters of protest, saying why it would prove a strategic political move to keep the Field Researchers. I haven’t been able to back up my theories. Nor is it possible to argue that it’s financially reasonable to keep us on. Maybe I’ll try to come up wit a compromise.
I looked over at Ben. He was also writing. I craned my neck in his direction to see what he was writing.
“If you must know, Deanna,” Ben drawled, frustration saturating his voice. “I’m writing my letter of resignation. A man does what he needs to do. And I need to move on. So don’t ask me why I’m writing this. And don’t tell me not to.”
I bit my lip. We’ve shared this office for four years, and Ben can almost read my mind. It’s scary. I turned back to the roll of parchment on my desk. Instead of writing a letter of protest, I began writing a list of careers I could pursue if I were to resign. By the time I have this:
Shopkeeper
Journalist
WWN Personality
Quidditch Player
As my list went on, it got more outrageous. I crumpled it up and stared at the wall, feeling incredibly hopeless. What else could I do?
After about fifteen minutes of staring at the wall, I grew bored. I was sick of feeling hopeless and sorry for myself. I tried to see things from another perspective, which, incidentally, is what I was being paid to do, for the time being, anyways.
To keep three freelance field researchers on hand was a financial drain, as we were paid an annual salary. Our reports could easily be done by actual Unspeakbles. I put my head down on my desk. I think I stayed in that position for an hour. By the time I looked up, Ben had gone and I was alone in my office, still debating on what to do.
“A man does what he needs to do. And I need to move on.” Ben’s words echoed in my mind as I got up and left my office. I was going to look at the unsolved murder cases from the war against You-Know-Who. I’ve always enjoyed doing that. To me, it’s always been like reading a story.
I walked to the archives where they were kept and pulled one off the shelf. Fenwick, Benjy. One of my favorite cases. I loved it for its vivid grotesqueness. How only bits of Fenwick were found by passing muggles who reported it. How it was a mystery. How Fenwick had fought against You-Know-Who.
I always admired those who fought You-Know-Who. I wished I could’ve done something to help the war efforts, but I was only fifteen when Harry Potter vanquished You-Know-Who. And what could a fifteen year old girl do to help? Nothing, my mother said. She told me that I should pray for those who fought, and be thankful I wasn’t being asked to join sides. But, secretly, I wished I was older, or that the war continued until I was of age. But, those were foolish, selfish thoughts. And I knew it.
I finished reading the Fenwick case, and I picked up another one. Dearborn, Caradoc. This was a disappearance. I read through it, though not particularly thinking of him or his case. Instead, I was considering the option of switching to becoming an Unspeakable. It was always a possibility. I put the case back on the shelf. I was going to re-evaluate my options.
Dear Reader by Madame Marauder
Chapter Notes: A/N: The murder/disappearance cases enclosed are canon. Both Fenwick and Dearborn were Order of the Pheonix members.