Dorcas Meadowes's funeral was held on October 25.
It rained again that day, a fine, steady drizzle.
Lin Ze stood among the crowd in black robes, with Scrimgeour, also dressed entirely in black, beside him.
Scrimgeour had shaved that day and combed his hair more neatly than usual, but his bloodshot eyes gave him away.
He and Meadows had been friends for years.
And now she lay in the coffin up ahead, no longer able to argue with him over the patrol schedule.
After the funeral, Scrimgeour pulled Lin Ze aside.
"Starting today, you won't be going on patrol anymore."
"What?" Lin Ze froze for a moment.
Scrimgeour rubbed his temples. "Crouch spoke to me about transferring you to the Records Management Office. I didn't agree at the time. But now..."
He glanced at the distant gravestone and said no more.
Lin Ze understood.
Scrimgeour was protecting him.
Meadows was dead, and the Death Eaters would only grow more rampant. Transferring Lin Ze to the Records Management Office would at least keep him away from the front lines and give him a better chance of surviving.
"The paperwork has already been approved. Report to the Records Management Office tomorrow." Scrimgeour clapped Lin Ze heavily on the shoulder, as though entrusting him with something very important.
"And remember this, kid. The Records Management Office might be safe, but it's hardly a haven of peace. The director there is Archibald Pick. He's been at the Ministry for thirty years, and he's a sly old fox. Keep your wits about you when dealing with him."
"Thanks for the warning." This time, Lin Ze did not joke around.
"One more thing." Scrimgeour's expression grew a little odd.
"I received another three resignation letters this morning. Including last week's, our office alone has lost six people this month."
"Six?"
"Six." Scrimgeour gave a bitter laugh.
"One of them wrote in his resignation letter that he was going to Australia to raise sheep. Raise sheep! An Auror quitting to raise sheep! Can you believe it?"
"Maybe he really likes sheep?"
"He can't even tell sheep from goats."
The two exchanged a look, then sighed at the same time.
Early the next morning, Lin Ze went to report to the Department of Administrative Affairs.
The Records Management Office was on the first basement level of the Ministry of Magic.
The corridor's lighting was dim and warm, and the air smelled of old parchment mixed with moth-repellent potions.
Lin Ze had barely reached the entrance to the Records Management Office when the sight before him stunned him.
Documents were piled from floor to ceiling, and rows of metal filing cabinets stood packed together like dominoes, leaving only gaps narrow enough for one person to squeeze through sideways.
Several precarious stacks of files stood in a corner, looking ready to collapse at any moment.
An elderly wizard with graying hair and glasses sat by the door, leisurely leafing through a yellowed book.
"Excuse me, is Mr. Archibald Pick here?" Lin Ze asked.
The old wizard raised his head and looked at him over his glasses.
"That's me. And you are?"
"Lin Ze. Transferred from the Auror Office. I'm reporting for duty today."
"Oh, so you're the one." Pick closed his book, took off his glasses, and wiped them with his cuff.
"Scrimgeour spoke to me. Asked me to take good care of you."
Lin Ze: "..."
"Do you manage this place alone?" Lin Ze looked around.
"As of yesterday, I still had three assistants. But this morning, one resigned and left for France, one resigned and left for Norway, and the last resigned to go home and inherit his father's wand shop." Pick counted them off on his fingers.
"All right."
With Voldemort's power now so great, everyone at the Ministry of Magic feared for their own safety. Although the Minister remained firm in his stance, as one powerful wizard after another fell, the Ministry ultimately could not keep its people united.
"Young people never want to come here. Spending all day with dust and old paper-it's like a tomb for the living dead." As he spoke, he watched Lin Ze's expression.
"Hmm? Why aren't you arguing? Most young people would say something polite here, like, 'I think the Records Management Office does very meaningful work.'"
"Because I do think this place looks like a tomb for the living dead," Lin Ze answered honestly.
Pick paused, then let out a raspy laugh.
"Interesting. Come with me, kid."
He rose and headed deeper into the archive room.
Though his back was slightly stooped, his strides were firm.
Lin Ze followed him past row after row of iron-gray filing cabinets.
The cabinets bore labels marked with years and department names. Some labels had yellowed and curled at the edges, their writing so faded it was almost illegible.
"Personnel files, financial records, meeting minutes, disciplinary decisions from every department since the Ministry of Magic was founded-they're all on this floor," Pick said as he walked.
"Some call this place the Ministry's memory bank. Others call it the Ministry's rubbish heap. Depends on how you look at it."
He stopped before a cabinet labeled "Department of Magical Law Enforcement · Personnel Files · 1975-1980" and lightly tapped its door handle with his wand.
The cabinet door creaked open.
It was crammed full of folders.
"These are the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's personnel files from the past five years. Plenty of people in here have already left, and plenty are already dead."
"If you want to pick out something interesting to read, go ahead. No one comes to check anyway. This place barely gets a handful of visitors all year."
He closed the cabinet door again, then turned and fixed Lin Ze with the eyes behind his glasses. "But there's one thing I must warn you about."
"Whatever you see here, take it to your grave. Once you're through that door, don't mention a single word. That's the rule."
"Understood." Lin Ze nodded seriously.
Pick seemed quite satisfied with that answer and dusted off his hands.
"Good. Your desk is over there." He pointed toward a corner.
"That pile of documents on the desk is the latest batch waiting to be filed. Take your time. No one here will rush you."
Lin Ze looked in the direction he pointed.
There was an old wooden desk with a deep scratch on one corner. A stack of folders sat on its surface, beside a balding quill and a half-empty bottle of ink.
There were no desk partitions, no nameplate, not even a decent chair.
"The furnishings may be a little shabby, but at least it's quiet." Pick had already settled back into his old chair and reopened his yellowed book.
"Ask if you have any questions."
Lin Ze walked to his desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
The wooden chair let out a piercing creak, as though protesting the sudden weight.
Rather than immediately leafing through the documents waiting to be filed, he raised his head and looked around.
Row after row of filing cabinets stood like silent soldiers beneath the dim lights.
Dust and scraps of parchment floated in the air. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the skylight, casting several long, thin shafts of light onto the floor.
The Ministry of Magic's memory bank.
Or its rubbish heap.
But to Lin Ze, this place was nothing less than a gold mine.