THE KEEPERS: A Hogwarts Legacy Story

Prologue

June of 1891, Paris -

The main level of the French Ministry of Magic bustled with wizarding folks from around the world. The sound of their busy footsteps and chatters echoed inside the atrium.

The atrium was the architectural pride of the Ministry. Its enormous glass dome ceiling consisted of hundreds of frosted glass panels, on which elaborate etchings of magical creatures and star constellations glided in circular motion.

The ministry's reception stood at the north end of the atrium, where visitors formed a line to establish their identities and business objectives. The receptionists at the ministry were trained to always dress impeccably, keep an upright posture, and welcome all visitors with an unfaltering smile.

The job came with great pride, but also body aches and fatigue, especially if one was relatively new to the job. The receptionist on duty on this day was exactly that. She was not enjoying her shift, as she was alone dealing with large waves of visitors and employees.

Lately, the Ministry saw a rise in the number of urgent business affairs and visitors. The receptionist had been briefed on the reason - something about a gang of poachers and extortionists terrorizing countryside hamlets in France - though, admittedly, she had not paid enough attention to remember details. As a Parisienne who lived in the safest quarter of the city, she found the news of the criminals wreaking havoc in the countryside uninteresting.

When the receptionist saw the last of the visitors in line walk away, she exhaled a sigh of relief. She massaged her shoulders that stiffened from standing for hours, her eyes skimmed mindlessly through the long lists of names on the enchanted log. Then, she heard a voice asking for her attention.

"Bienvenue au Ministère des Affaires Magiques." The receptionist said tonelessly, her eyes still on the log. "Your name?"

"Clarissa Gladwell," said the visitor, her hand sliding her visitor identification card forward on the reception desk. The card displayed her title: Liaison de Coopération Internationale, Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la Bretagne.

The receptionist's eyes shot up at the sound of a familiar name. The visitor was a tall brunette woman with an air of charisma. The fine creases at the corners of her brown eyes suggested she was in her early or mid-40s. Underneath her hat, adorned with a lace ribbon and a cluster of blue Fwooper feathers, a strand of her brown curly hair trailed down and framed her fair oval face. Her slender build was clothed in a cream linen ensemble with a pinstripe pattern and leg-of-mutton sleeves, the style which the receptionist knew to be highly in trend across Europe.

"Madame Liaison. Bonjour." Suddenly realizing that she had been staring, the receptionist stood upright in haste and met the visitor's eyes. "Where are you headed today?"

The visitor replied in fluent French, "I am expected at the Department of Aurors."

"Of course. Right this way, then." The receptionist stepped aside and gestured the visitor towards one of the floo powder fireplaces behind her. The visitor obliged with thanks.

The receptionist glanced over her shoulder at the visitor. So that's the liaison from the British Ministry of Magic.

The receptionist had been told the liaison was one of the visitors of higher profiles and to be assisted with care. Apparently, the liaison had earned her esteem from being something of a diplomat, having worked with many high-ranking officials from magical governments around the world. The receptionist wondered what it would be like to a witch with such reputation and responsibilities.

But expectations can be a terrible headache, she thought, as she turned around and resumed her duty that suddenly seemed more manageable.

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