Chapter 62: Echoes of the Deep Realm

Sated and finally relaxed, Aiden sank into the plush sofa with a long, contented sigh. He drained the last of his lemonade in one go, the cool drink a perfect finish to the meal.

He glanced at the Director, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.

"So, Mr. Director," Aiden began, raising an eyebrow, "is your job so uneventful that it involves watching me eat dinner?"

The Director shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I'm never uneventful, Aiden. But who says I can't work while I'm here?"

"Ah? Am I part of your work?" Aiden asked, surprised.

"The Department of Mysteries was founded when ancient wizards discovered a form of innate magic—a power whose existence was difficult to explain and even harder, some would say impossible, to control. The Silencers were created to investigate and experiment with these mysterious forces."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Aiden pressed, his curiosity piqued.

"It has everything to do with you," the Director replied, his smile turning cryptic. "Controller of minds."

He leaned forward slightly. "I don't know if anyone has told you, but when a wizard casts a spell, it's an act of will. A conscious, subjective impulse. It's a biological instinct. But you… you can discard that instinct, can't you? Perfectly control the mind, separate from the self. What does one even call that?"

The Director narrowed his eyes, studying Aiden as if he were a fascinating puzzle.

"Call me whatever you like," Aiden said, his tone flat. "Just tell me more about the Deep Realm." He wasn't concerned. Those without the proper understanding were unqualified to explore the nature of his abilities, and those who were qualified enough to understand had their own paths to walk.

"Very well," the Director said, his demeanor turning serious. "The Deep Realm is a peculiar place. In a sense, it both exists and does not. The simplest way to describe it is as the seabed of the collective sea of consciousness. All the negative aspects of mortal emotion—the sludge and sediment—precipitate out and settle there. That sediment is the Deep Realm."

He ticked off the points on his fingers. "Based on the most powerful and peculiar desires of the mind, corresponding realms were formed:

Regret for the passage of time forms Reverse Entropy.

The desperate prayer for karmic retribution forms Hell.

The primal impulse to destroy everything forms Resentment.

The nihilistic belief that all is void forms Idiocy.

The raw, desperate desire to survive forms Life.

And finally, all the accumulated dissatisfaction with order forms Chaos."

"So, the first layer I encountered… that was Hell," Aiden muttered, the pieces clicking into place.

The Director continued as if he hadn't heard. "Ancient wizards discovered these forces and, naturally, coveted their power. They wanted to study them, to harness them." He paused for dramatic effect.

"Let me guess, the ending is a cliché," Aiden interjected dryly. "They meddled with powers beyond their understanding and brought disaster upon themselves."

"Precisely," the Director chuckled. "Humans, aren't we? We seek our own destruction before we learn our lesson. Still, one can't fault the curiosity that has guided our civilization this far." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "The research back then went too far. It was a mad scramble for power, with different factions exploring these forces simultaneously. They were reckless, and in their haste, they gave birth to six Deep Realm Kings. Fortunately, these entities were born without true consciousness. That gave us a chance to breathe."

"But as human emotion continued to pour into the Deep Realm, the Kings began to stir, drawn toward the living world. The wizards of that era worked frantically to stop them, all while continuing their exploration of the mind. Great things were born in that period; wizards were even hailed as gods for a time. Ultimately, they managed to analyze and reverse-engineer the power of the Kings, creating a 'Distorted Illusion' that severed their path to our world. We, the Silencers, simply follow in their footsteps."

"So your daily routine is saving the world?" Aiden joked.

"You flatter us," the Director said with a mock-shy expression. "It's more of a part-time job. We mostly keep to our labs. It's only when some fool gets ambitious and tries to shatter reality that we get to moonlight as saviors." He winked, and Aiden felt a shiver run down his spine. "The rest, I'm afraid, isn't suitable for a young wizard to know. To learn more, you'd have to join us."

"Right, I get it," Aiden said, standing up abruptly. "Anything else? If not, I'm leaving."

"You're free to go," the Director called after him as he walked to the door. "But I have a hunch we'll be colleagues one day."

The heavy door swung shut, cutting off the voice and plunging the hallway back into silence.

Aiden passed through the rotunda, took the elevator to the Ministry's main atrium, and stepped into a fireplace, returning to the Prewett residence in a swirl of green flames.

The outside world was in an uproar. The storm of public opinion over Kingsport was raging, with Muggle citizens taking to the streets to protest the government's incompetence. In the magical world, The Daily Prophet was flying off the shelves. The headline was emblazoned in thick, bold letters: SHOCKING RITUAL! DARK WIZARD VANISHES ENTIRE TOWN!

Inside the Ministry, Cornelius Fudge's office was reportedly buried under a mountain of Howlers as wizards from across the country condemned his weak stance on Dark Magic. In response, the Ministry urgently passed a new bill: the "Dark Wizard Management Regulations." It meticulously detailed the supervision Dark Wizards would be subjected to and concluded with an utterly baffling postscript calling on all Dark Wizards to voluntarily submit themselves for Ministry oversight.

That night, Aiden sat at the dinner table Sibby had prepared. He took a sip of lemonade with his left hand and raised the newly delivered Prophet with his right. He had just started reading when his eyes fell on the details of Fudge's new bill.

A spray of lemonade erupted from his mouth, soaking the newsprint.

"Pfft—!"

"Cough, cough… How did that man ever get elected?" he muttered, tossing the ruined paper into the bin.

He began to eat, his mind racing. It was a relief that Molly Weasley didn't know he'd been anywhere near Kingsport. The bad news was that the incident was too big to be contained. A student's parent was involved, and Aiden knew it wouldn't be long before a certain meddlesome Headmaster came calling.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimed.

"Ding-dong."

Aiden sighed. "Speak of the devil. Sibby, please get the door."

A moment later, the house-elf led in a silver-haired old man wearing flamboyant scarlet robes.

"Professor," Aiden said without preamble. "While I know it's rude to say, I must confess I have serious doubts about your aesthetic choices."

The accusation seemed to catch the famously eccentric wizard off-guard for a moment, but he recovered with a twinkle in his eye and settled into a nearby armchair.

"Pumpkin juice, lemonade, tea, or coffee?" Aiden asked politely.

"Pumpkin juice would be lovely, thank you," Dumbledore replied.

"So, Professor. You're here about the Kingsport matter." It wasn't a question.

Dumbledore simply nodded, his gaze resting on Aiden, waiting.

"No comment, Professor," Aiden stated firmly. "My name is on the Silencing Stone. As I'm sure yours is."

A look of understanding dawned on Dumbledore's face. "Ah. Yes, I see." The two fell into a silent understanding, a shared secret hanging between them.

"In that case," Dumbledore said, his tone growing somber, "I would also like to speak with you about Mr. Graves."

"Oliver? What's wrong?"

"He has lost his father. I had initially assumed his father was among the sacrificed, but now… it seems the truth is something far more complicated." Dumbledore's eyes grew distant, filled with a deep sorrow.

"Why," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, "does suffering so often seek out those it has already visited?"

Aiden fell silent, the weight of the old man's words settling heavily in the quiet room.

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