Catch The Snitch

This is the first of a series of vignettes about Nigel. He has quite a bit going on – his previous job as an Unspeakable, the werewolf attack during the Second Wizarding War, his sudden resignation from the Ministry, and him joining Hogwarts as a professor – so this is a way for me to explore his backstory, and also delve into the lore behind time magic and Unspeakables. As a result the vignettes might seem a bit raw and unpolished at times. Feedback is very welcome and appreciated, so please feel free to contact me on Discord :)

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Faith or Folly
2nd June, 2000

“Look, Nigel, you know I’ll gladly follow you to hell and back, but this, THIS, is where I draw the line.”

The young man stared incredulously at his best mate, one eyebrow arched questioningly as he scrutinised his friend’s expression, hoping to find a crack or a point of weakness at which to press his attack. But there was none. Jamie was dead serious.

Tauntingly, Nigel waggled the offending object at Jamie. “Come on—“

“Get it out of my face!” Jamie howled as he recoiled in mock horror. “It’s rank!”

“It’s not! It’s a shining symbol of Scotland!”

“Then why don’t they erect a monument for it?” Jamie countered. “Oh wait, they already did!” With a grand flourish, he gestured towards their surroundings. “It’s called…”—he dragged out the sentence, milking the moment for as long as he could before finishing it dramatically—“Scotland’s Folly.”

The two childhood friends were at the top of Calton Hill in the heart of Edinburgh, sitting under what would have been a most stately, Parthenon-like structure that was meant to honour the brave Scottish soldiers and sailors who had lost their lives during the Napoleonic Wars. But the construction works were halted when the funds (that had been inadequate to begin with) ran out. Since then, the monument, which by that time had comprised nought more than an incomplete stylobate with a measly twelve columns and the architrave between them, had been left in its current and incomplete state for close to two hundred years.

Nigel rolled his eyes. “Let me get this straight: you’re equating this”—he indicated the monument with his free hand, before pointing to the object in his other hand—“with a fucking deep-fried Mars bar.”

“Damn right I am,” Jamie replied without missing a beat. “Both were borne out of Scottish stupidity, and have stuck around because we couldn’t be bothered to change anything.” He took another look at the deep-fried Mars bar in Nigel’s hand and shook his head disapprovingly. “That abomination represents everything that’s wrong with the Scottish diet: too much fat and sugar and calories. And I don’t want to die young.”

“And yet you still don’t eat enough fruit.”

“Tomato’s a fruit.”

“Right,” Nigel sneered, his voice dripped with sarcasm. “And tatties are veggies.”

“Touché.” Jamie conceded. And a moment later, he added, “Y’know what, gimme half of that.”

“Figured as much.” Barely suppressing his grin, Nigel pulled the artery-clogging confection into two half-as-unhealthy pieces and passed one to Jamie, and they each took a bite. It was… exactly what Nigel thought it would be like. “I was hoping that it’ll be greater than the sum of its parts,” he said, somewhat disappointed.

“Batter and a Mars bar, nothing more, nothing less,” Jamie commented matter-of-factly as he polished off what was left of his piece. “Where’d you get it from?”

“Bene’s.”

“Ah, good old Bene’s. Haven’t been there since forever.”

“Aye.” Nigel nodded. After they graduated from Hogwarts eight years ago, Nigel became an Unspeakable at the Ministry, while Jamie found employment with the Daily Prophet. As such, they had chosen to move to London where they shared a flat with Jamie’s colleague, Dean, and rarely returned to Edinburgh.

And then the Second Wizarding War broke out.

To say that it was a life-changing moment for the two of them was a gross understatement. After the war ended and peace returned, they had given much thought to the way they had been living all this while, chasing after what they had thought was important and never quite able to find what they were looking for – if they even knew what it was in the first place. And this was the first time that they had taken an extended break from work to step away from their lives and figure out the way ahead.

Jamie’s question broke Nigel’s train of thought. “Are you really leaving the Ministry?”

“It’s no longer a matter of if, but when,” Nigel replied. “I’m sorry I can’t go into the specifics, but I hope I’m making the right choice.” Subconsciously he slipped off the ring he was wearing on his left hand and began to play with it. At first glance it seemed like a plain silver ring that was a wee bit thicker and wider than usual, but as Nigel fiddled with the ring, it split apart into three concentric rings, and he rearranged them to form a miniature armillary sphere.

The sight of the ring reminded Jamie of a previous conversation they had. “Are you still serious about that, Nigel?” he asked, indicating the ring in his friend’s hand.

The Unspeakable didn’t say a word, but the answer was obvious.

“Does Dean ken? Or Faye?”

“Nae.”

“Merlin’s beard…” Jamie couldn’t believe his ears. He looked away for a moment to wrap his mind around how ridiculous the whole matter was. Dean was the smartest in their little merry gang, and Faye their moral compass. If Nigel hadn’t discussed that matter with either of them… “You weren’t looking for advice,” Jamie concluded.

“Aye.”

“You only wanted my support.”

“Aye.”

“And so you made me Secret Keeper.”

“Aye.”

With a groan, Jamie buried his head in his hands. “What have you gotten me into…”

“I’m sorry,” Nigel edged closer to his best mate, putting an arm around him and pulling him into a side hug. “You know you’re the person I trust the most.”

There was a pregnant silence, and for a moment Nigel feared that he had crossed a line. But Jamie finally looked up, sighed, and returned the hug. “Sucks to be me, I guess. But do what you have to, Nigel. I’m sorry I can’t be of much help, but if there’s anything I can do, tell me, alright?”

“Thanks Jamie,” Nigel replied. “This really, really means a lot to me.”

Mala Tempora
17th January, 2004

Something wasn’t right.

Nigel paused, hand on the doorknob of his front door, unable to shake away the sense of unease that struck him suddenly nor explain it. Rationalising that the best solution was to press on until he encountered the problem, he swung the door open and stepped in.

Light streamed into the flat through the tall windows onto the vintage furniture and dark hardwood floor. The curtains were open: heavy white cotton drapes that contrasted strongly against the charcoal and red brick walls.

He had closed the curtains to keep the cold out.

Cautiously he stepped further into the flat. Something was definitely off about the kitchenette along the wall to his right: someone had recently put the kettle on, and the water wasn’t even boiling yet. He glanced at the oven door, hoping to use the glass as a mirror to look around the corner to his left, but the angle was wrong. His hand strayed to his wand as he continued walking, until the rest of the flat came into view.

“It’s been a while.”

The intruder addressing him wore his face – the same features, the same dark blond hair, the same startlingly blue eyes. The only thing that differed was the expression: assured, smug even, as he leaned casually against the wall.

His mirror clone. The one that had entered this world through the strange mirror all those years ago. Despite his and Morgan’s best efforts, his clone had escaped and for many years remained a step ahead of Nigel, eluding the original whilst machinating towards some unknown goal from the shadows. On several occasions Nigel had come close to catching up to his clone, but the latter had – thus far – invariably slipped away through space or time, leaving behind the dissipating blue glow of time magic or a soft pop from an Apparition spell to make mock of Nigel.

Nigel had noted with no satisfaction at all that he, despite being a rather non-threatening individual, would make for a most elusive villain.

He kept his own expression neutral and unreadable. The fact that his own home could be breached so easily gnawed at the edges of his sanity, but he tried to ignore it. Slippery as the clone was, there was no telling when his clone would deign to show up again, and Nigel wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

“You’ve been hard to pin down.”

The clone’s smirk widened fractionally as he crossed his arms. He was dressed as smartly as Nigel was – a crisp white shirt, a burgundy three-piece suit minus the jacket, and a pair of espresso Oxfords. The jacket was hung casually over the back of a nearby chair, and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, giving the real Nigel a clear view of the watch on his wrist – a much simpler timepiece than Nigel's – and his unscarred forearms. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Also, I’d appreciate if you take your hand off your wand. We both know you won’t be quick enough.”

Nigel kept his hand exactly where it was. “Neither will you. You’ve been busy.”

The clone shrugged. “No rest for the wicked. Tea?”

“Let’s not waste each other’s time. What do you want?”

“Tea. And Hobnobs, considering this might take a while.”

Behind Nigel, the kettle started whistling. He almost jumped. His clone indicated the kettle with a slight tilt of his head. But Nigel wasn’t in the mood for tea or biscuits or games of any sort. He resisted the urge to draw his wand; there was a good chance that forcing an escalation would backfire spectacularly. The clone had deliberately chosen Nigel’s flat – literally his home ground – for this encounter. It was either confidence or folly, but even if it was the latter, there was likely some kind of gambit or trap involved that he wasn’t seeing yet.

Nonetheless, Nigel couldn’t shake the feeling that something else didn’t add up. Slowly he backed away towards the kitchenette, and then it dawned upon him.

The clock read seven. And it was bright outside. Too bright for January.

He wasn’t in his flat. He was inside his own head, within a room constructed from his memories, with one of the failsafes he had implemented for situations like this. “Clever,” he said, and with that he bolted.

The front door vanished before he hit it, and the corridor beyond transformed into the interior of a clock tower as he reasserted control over his mindscape. Cogs, chains and mechanical linkages sprang into existence, each piece falling into its correct place in an intricate puzzle. Behind him, his clone gave a startled yelp and tried to follow as the flat began to crumble into nothingness, only for the door to reappear and shut him out.

Inside the ground floor of the clocktower, a bewildering array of artifacts and knick-knacks – his memories manifesting in physical form – was strewn all over the stone floor. Reflexively his Occlumency training kicked in, and each object morphed into an innocuous form to blend into their surroundings, found a hiding spot or locked itself within a secure container. Having earned a moment’s reprieve, he took stock of the situation. How long had he been here? How long had his clone been sifting through his memories?

His thoughts were interrupted by furious pounding on the door, and then silence. Not good, Nigel thought to himself as he hastily ascended the cast iron spiral staircase to the upper floors. Scant heartbeats later, a deafening boom reverberated throughout the clocktower as a powerful shockwave ripped the door from its hinges and hurled it across the ground floor, where it smashed against the wall into useless splinters. The clone’s footsteps pursued him persistently as he wound his way up the rickety steps.

Before long Nigel found himself at the highest floor with nowhere else to go. More memories lay exposed and vulnerable. He stopped in his tracks to strengthen his mental defences, and one by one their physical manifestations vanished from sight. The last trinket hopped into a nondescript metal tin that snapped shut just as his clone reached the top of the stairs, and Nigel spun around to confront him.

“I should have expected as much,” the clone snarled, his wand raised and ready.

“Then you should know very well that this is futile.”

“Au contraire.” The smirk returned to the clone’s face. “I know exactly how this will go down.”

With that, the clone lunged for the metal tin, but Nigel was closer and quicker. He swiped it off the shelf and made the quickest possible exit from the top floor of the tower: the window. Bracing himself for the impact, he raised his shoulder and jumped, smashing through the brittle glass pane with the tin cradled in his arms. In mid-air he turned around, and saw that his clone had not taken the bait and chased after him.

Perfect.

Time seemed to slow as he fell. He prised the tin’s lid off, revealing a small portal… just as the clone opened a plain wooden box and found not the secret he had been after, but the other side of the portal inside the box. And through the portal, Nigel was grinning triumphantly. There was no time for the shock to register, for Nigel reached through the portal, grabbed the clone by the collar of his shirt and yanked, dragging the latter bodily through the portal in the wooden box and out from the tin on the other side. They were now both hurtling towards the cobblestone street below, two tangled bodies flailing and struggling as they fought to stay on top. At the last moment Nigel twisted and positioned himself above the clone.

“Thanks for letting me in,” Nigel said as the clone’s back crashed onto the street – but there was no impact. Instead, the ground ripped apart as though it was made of paper, and they fell into another world altogether. By luck or providence a tree arrested their descent and they tumbled off it separately onto the grass, groaning and bruised.

Rubbing his head, Nigel sat up and found himself in an oddly familiar graveyard. The various memorials. The shape of the hill. The statue of John Knox on a tall column. The Glasgow Necropolis, he realised dimly. Somehow or another, his clone’s mindscape was not of their hometown. Had their respective pasts been that different?

Several tombstones stood a short distance away, with nothing but dates engraved onto them. 8 July 2001. 15 May 2003. 24 October 1981. 6 July 1997.

The last date hit too close to home.

“Get the fuck out of my head.”

Nigel turned around just in time to see his clone close in. The punch hit him square in the temple, and the world spun. And then everything else spun as well as vertigo took over—

—and he crashed hard onto the floor of the pub.

“Goodness, y’alright mate?”

A pair of strong arms pulled Nigel up to a sitting position on the floor against the wall, and after several seconds his vision cleared sufficiently and he found himself looking at a balding middle-aged bloke with ruddy cheeks and a thick beard.

“Aye,” Nigel croaked, and promptly winced as the memories came rushing back. He was in Bristol chasing a lead about his clone, and he had stepped into the pub for a break and a pint. His head hurt, and his shoulder ached a little, but he seemed otherwise fine. The kind stranger gave him a once over and, after arriving at the same conclusion, helped him onto the chair. By then even the bartender had come over, concerned about the commotion. It took a bit of convincing, but Nigel managed to reassure both of them that he was truly all right and thanked them profusely. The stranger patted his shoulder before taking his leave, while the bartender went to fetch a mop to clean up; Nigel’s beer stein had fallen along with him.

Before the bartender returned, a thought occurred to Nigel, and he checked his surroundings before he drew his wand and pointed it at one of the larger glass shards that still held some beer. He muttered a spell, and the golden liquid clouded over and turned dark.

Someone had spiked his drink.

Nigel stowed his wand just in time as the bartender came back. Whoever had been responsible was most certainly long gone by now. But at the very least, not only were his secrets safe, he had even turned the tables on his clone and stolen valuable information.

The dates on the tombstones. 6 July 1997 was the day the Snatchers attacked the safe house his father and several others were sheltering in. The other dates were unfamiliar to him, but there had to be a reason why they were significant or important to his clone.

He’d find out soon enough. He had to.