Hogwarts School - Elsewhere

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It was not a house, by any description thereof. It could be described, perhaps, as a small mansion. And old.

He didn't know if he liked it. He could sense already that there was too much history, too many chances of something wandering through the halls that noone would take notice of but him. It whispered to him, in its own language, and he felt tired.

He liked the ocean view though. The smell of the sea. The breeze playing with his hair, lightly.

And it was warm.

As he walked up to the entrance, he did not know quite with what he'd be met. As a person, he'd changed considerably. As a man, he'd visibly withered. The young Marcus Vega - the Quidditch Captain, the Head Boy, the member of the Advance Guard - had been a tall, muscular, resilient sort. Although he'd always been slender, languid in his features, the man that stood there now was thin, skeletal, as though ridden by disease. Dark hair had started greying, and his eyes were mismatched - once a stark blue, one had now turned a cloudy grey.

The cloak that draped his body was black, plain but silky and light. It danced quietly in the summer breeze. Under one arm were four books packed in brown paper.

An arm extended, knuckles knocking on wood.

It had been fourty years.

The Election Debate has sent his head into a spin. As it went on, he'd given himself over to a signature annoyance, even a loathing, as he had listened to Atticus' speech on how he was going to improve their magical community.

When he'd entered home in Muspell, he'd been overcome by what could not be described as anything but a purple haze. And then he'd broken down, found some long forgotten bottle of red wine (technically, he'd quit all drinking many years before) and slumped into one of his large, leather chairs.

And he'd sat through the night thinking.

And he'd remembered.

Then he'd been gripped by them, long tendrils of dark misery, of despair, and of failure. And like his Condition (the one that had landed him in the seat of the Seer) seemed to require (much helped by the wine), it had tossed him into a spiral of confusion, as his grip on reality wiltered away. From then on he knew what had happened, but struggled to remember - failing to reach the door downstair to the protective chambers, he'd been tossed into the Otherworld, and Muspell's spirits had recognised his moment of weakness.

He'd woken to bookcases that had toppled over. One of the meaner spirits had gotten away, and a labour heavy task of hunting it back down was on the future agenda.

For now, though, he found himself back in the Pasta Vino (oh, the irony), finding the Interim Minister working at a table.

"Excuse me, Sir," he said. "Do you mind?"

It was an odd thing for Altair to slip into formalities, and it reminded him of a pureblood upbringing that he'd long since abandoned. And though he'd made an effort to look presentable, he felt dizzy from the turmultous week.

"My name's Altair. I taught at Hogwarts when you were a student," he explained.

(In fact, he was pretty sure that Rivera had been at school, during his infamous incident of blood magic.)

"I'm considering giving you my vote, but I have some questions about your political agenda - if you'd be so kind."

He gestured to the free chair on the other side of the table - a request to sit.

Through the turmoil of the night, he'd realised something important: The reason why he'd exited the debate with the confusing feeling of both being moved and wanting to rip out the throat of Atticus Rivera, was possibly that the man was trying to do something at which Altair had failed.

So he had a need to run a reality check that whatever Rivera had said that had set him off was not a fragment of Altair's own imagination (as were too many things, these days).

Furthermore: Whether the loathing he felt for Rivera was actually grounded in a loathing for himself.

(In the middle of desperation, he must reach out a long-fingered hand and grab it - grab the hole in his chest that constantly worked to turn him against himself and everyone else.)

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Every now and then something stubled into the shop that he had not expected. While it was not supposed to happen, it was a keen reminder that his magic wasn't foolproof and that it was time to re-do the wards (many of which were put in place to protect the outside from the things he had trapped in here).

Every time, however, it set off an alarm of eerie murmur, a choir of agitated low voices, undetectable by all but those with the keenest sense of Divination. And every time he hushed them quiet, as his feet fell into a steady rhythm, needing no light to lead him to the culprit.

This time, as he came to a stop behind a shelf by the entrance, he registered the presence of two, in addition to the others that were already there - which was nothing short of a crowd, for his standards.

One of them was a child.

Now, keeping children out of the shop had little to do with not being open for introducing the young to the more complicated sides of magic. Rather, it had to do with their teenage attitudes, the King-of-the-Castle attempt at pulling off the dark and for their friends following the logic of something cool.

(There was too much in here not meant for the unwisened, though most inspiring of any real danger was kept behind shut doors.)

This one was harmless, so Altair let him be. And since he'd rather not trap the child inside the shop, he let the defective child-repellant be. Then, passing the conversing pair on the way back to the counter, he registered the word Potions and decided to steer very much clear.

Altair, ever the alchemist, was rubbish at Potions.

When they, after another moment, arrived at the counter, he accepted the money, sending a gaze after the child running off with his grown-up books.

"That was a nice gesture," he commented, the deep line of a furrow visible between dark eyebrows, as he let the woman know that he'd registered parts of their conversation. He was silently thankful that the matter had been taken care of by someone who obviously had more skill than him at communicating with children.

He turned his eyes to her then, one a clear blue, the other a cloudy grey.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

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From the outside Muspell is not an inviting place. There are no windows pointing to the street - well, except the one on the front door (painted in olive green), which provides a minimum insight for the overly curious. What can be seen from here is not very interesting. Most of the time the shop looks closed down. And most of the time it is.

Once you enter, the first thing you meet is not the actual shop, but a hallway. Articles of clothing hang on pegs along the walls, most of them jackets and cloaks of various sorts. On the floor are shoes and on the wall a handwritten note asking that others remove their shoes before entering. At this point it looks like customers are entering someone's home. When they arrive through the next door (deep blue) though --

The main room of the store is much larger than you'd expect from the outside. Along all sides are bookshelves full of books. Some of them (like the Hogwarts staircases) move and customers may find themselves getting trapped (and then quickly rescued by the owner). The titles are diverse and there is no limit to the variation of topics, with the result that titles may dwell far into the grey and shadowed areas of magical theory. The exception are books that hold explicit information on practical dark magic - these are stored elsewhere and only taken out on request.

Not all books are for sale, some can be borrowed - speak to the owner for clarification. All books carry protection spells that means they cannot pass through the blue and the green doors without permission. Any kind of book can be ordered, including books that are not yet there. Altair finds books from any location in the world, on request, as long as the customer can pay (and as long as Altair gets to read it first). The time it takes to complete a request can take anything from a day to several months, depending on factors such as travel distance, spell protections and risk management. Prices vary accordingly and may rise at unforseen difficulty. If you cannot pay, the book remains at Muspell.

People of a certain divinatory skill are likely to notice that Muspell is home to a number of spirits. As such, it is not really possible to be alone in this place and the presence of glittering eyes in the dark may, in fact, not be merely imaginary.

The floor is covered in an ash grey wall-to-wall carpet. The room is sparsely lit, but can be fully lit on Altair's command. Workstations are scattered about. In the middle of the floor is a glass desk. There is nothing fancy on display, although the room looks elegant enough.

This is, however, only the part of the shop visible to visitors.

The secrets rooms --

-- remain secret. To everyone.

Also - try not to get on Altair's bad side.

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