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Mr. Turner by marauderslover15
Chapter 1 : Mr. Turner
Rating: 15+Chapter Reviews: 2

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Welcome everyone!

Gather around and sit down. Today’s story is about a particular character. Very strange character indeed. A little whacky and complex. I won’t blabber on about a story summary or such nonsense like that because the story is going to start right away and you honestly have no choice, but to sit here and listen. Because there is a moral to this story and I am sure you are in a learning type of mood for morals and such—trivial things— Did I say trivial? Ha, ha. No, no. It is very important. So, please sit—hey you I said sit­­—well, we…um…lost one. Anyway, let our story begin…before anyone else leaves…..



It is like lava pouring out.

Bubbly and fiery, ready to explode any minute.

Mr. Turner dug his nails into the elevator’s wall with a shaky, angry hand while waiting for the little “ping” sound and the crisp voice announcing his floor of Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The “ping” of the elevator sounded, the crisp voice spoke and another Ministry worker stepped in whistling this horrid, most annoying tune in the stupid happy mood that he was in.

Mr. Turner breathed harshly through his nose, almost breathing fire like a dragon. If he could breathe fire, it would certainly be on this young gentleman because the bloody whistling was the most annoying sound to hear so early in the morning. Of course, this is a simple exaggeration because you and I would find this tune very pleasing. In Mr. Turner’s sense of hearing though, the tune was scratching the inside of his ears.

The gentleman cocked his eyebrow at Mr. Turner, still keeping the tune playing lightheartedly from his lips. The whistling faded into a question, “How are you, Mr. Turner?”

“Just—Just fine,” he snapped. “Mr. Archwood,” he finished with a mumble.

“Bad morning?”

“More than bad,” muttered Mr. Turner with his lips pursing in disapproval. It was not disapproval of Mr. Archwood totally, but more so with the world around him.

“Yeah, eh? What happened?”

“Muggle spilled coffee on me. My wand is slightly bent from sleeping on in by accident. And I made a recent large sum payment on a beach house in Egypt which I haven’t been to in years. So I can’t spare a Knut to get a new wand,” babbled Mr. Turner with a growl.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get it sorted out. You obviously used magic to clean yourself of any coffee stains. And if your wand is in working condition it should be fine. Plus, you can always think about how beautiful—” at which Mr. Archwood whistled impressed, “—that house is going to look viewing that clear ocean.”

Mr. Turner did not find this the least comforting. He wasn’t even sure what Mr. Archwood was trying to get at. Was Mr. Archwood deaf? Did he not hear what Mr. Turner said? And this thought just fed into Mr. Turner’s overdramatic anger. But if you were to ask him, his anger was without a doubt reasonable. I’m sure we all know that Mr. Turner at this point gets very upset by very little, insignificant things, but it is best to allow him to falsely think how annoying Mr. Archwood is with his bloody whistling and not be able to simply comprehend how awful Mr. Turner’s morning really is.

Another “ping” sounded, the crisp announcement of the floor and Mr. Archwood began to walk out as he said, “You should ease up, Mr. Turner. Anyway, see ya around.”

Ease up? Ease up

The lava was boiling, it was boiling so hot and to such intensity that it’s rumbling bubbles were popping. The next person to upset him was going to feel the rage of a volcano exploding. Once again the stupid little “ping” sound rang and the annoyingly perfect crisp voice announcing, finally Mr. Turner was able to step out. He didn’t necessarily step out, it was more like a stomp. He stomped in the blue-sapphire titled corridor as paintings of infamous Aurors murmuring under their breath about Mr. Turner.

“Such an angry man.”

“He started working here last month—”

“No one knows where he came from—”

“No past record—”

“Why would they hire him—?”

“Such an angry man.”

Finally, Mr. Turner has said something. It was a mumble so low you and I could barely hear. “Stupid paintings.” He, of course, wanted to do more like hex the paintings right off the wall, but he intended to save his wrath for someone who was more concrete than a person painted on a silly background and then framed expensively. He could not also take the beautiful chance of ruining Ministry property because he wanted nothing more, but to keep his job. Why you ask? He clearly hates his job, the building he works, his coworkers and probably life itself. So, why on earth would he want to stay and continue his misery? He was slightly greedy. No, the Ministry did not pay him as nicely as you and I think. The true glory of money was coming from Death Eaters. Oh, yes you heard right. He was accepting money from Death Eaters. They had found him in Brazil, wasting away in a Shantytown home (if you would like to call it that), barely getting by and not just on living expensive because he barely knew a word of Spanish either. They seem to know something about him. Merlin, he hoped they didn’t know what he thought they knew. But that was a time, he did not want to remember. A dark time. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and that is really unfortunate because we all want to know. Luckily—for us that is so we can look into his mind—he couldn’t completely shake the thoughts. He was experiencing flashbacks of the Death Eaters offering the top job of his department at the Ministry for him. Somehow he was able to weasel his way into this job. He never figured out how, considering when everyone questioned where he came from. He wondered if they knew as well…

Left to his thoughts, Mr. Turner continued on his—no, not merry, definitely not merry—he continued on his miserable way with a grumpy grey cloud right above his head with slight thunder grumbling. After several turns in the corridor, he pushed through a grand wooden door with the lettering in golden, thin cursive written above it, “Improper Use of Magic.” For such grand doors, many would think it would lead to a grand office that was buzzing with busy bodies and endless rows of cubicles that ran into the endless time of a black hole. It was nothing like that, I can assure you. It only held about twelve cubicles that build a path, almost pointing to the three glass windows of a nice sized office.

Mr. Turner slouched past the gray cubicles and into that nice sized office. The almost clear, empty desk was off to the right as the left wall was replaced by a wall bookshelf which housed neatly tucked away books in extraordinary condition. It was in such exttraordinary condition that it looked like the books have not been touched. A small fireplace was in the middle of the room of red brick and gray stone. He turned to his desk, the only thing on his desk was a large calendar resting under a beige folder thickened with files and a picture of the pyramids in Egypt. He examined the frame picture closely.

Now, his blood was really boiling.

Someone had slightly moved the framed picture a millimeter to the left. He huffed with a rage, almost breathing out fire and stomped out of his office. He halted at the first cubicle to his right, glaring over the gray walls.

“Mister—Mr. Turner,” stuttered the young man with nervousness. “Go—Good morn—morning!” he finished with a squeak. “

“Mr. Jefferson,” he growled.

“I—I lef—left the fil—files you wan—wanted on your—your desk!”

“I saw. So, was it you that moved my picture?” Mr. Turner leaned over the cubicle, his face inches away from Mr. Jefferson’s.

“I—I—I—don’t know!”

Mr. Turner’s eyes moved from shaking Mr. Jefferson to the Daily Prophet neatly folded on the desk besides Mr. Jefferson. The title page letting in big bold was Sad Anniversary of—and the rest of the words curves to the darkness of the other side of the folded paper. Neatly underneath the title was a moving picture of a blasting of a pyramid. Mr. Turner swallowed hard at the picture, slowly moving back away from Mr. Jefferson. Mr. Jefferson continually glanced from the Daily Prophet to Mr. Turner.

“Do you—er—want it Mr. Turner?”

“No,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, Mr. Turner,” Mr. Jefferson said shyly, “there is a letter for you.”

Mr. Jefferson picked up the Daily Prophet which caused Mr. Turner to flinch and Mr. Jefferson pulled a white crisp envelope from beneath it.  Mr. Jefferson held it out to Mr. Turner who eyes it carefully and Mr. Jefferson cocked his eyebrow questioningly. With a subtle shaky hand, Mr. Turner grabbed the envelope, eyeing it suspiously. He could only hope the letter was not what he believed it contain. He hoped it did breathe a word of the past.

“Thank you,” he muttered stiffly, walking away with the envelope held a good distance away from his body as if it would snap at him. Into his office he went, bringing down the shades before he settled into the desk. He stared at the unopened letter for what seemed like ages and finally, he worked the nerve to finally reveal its secret. He just hoped it wasn’t revealing any secrets of his.  He unfolded the letter, his eyes desperately reading.

Dear Mr. Turner,

Please allow your fireplace to be open for the floo network immediately. I will be on standby.

Mr. Turner set the letter on fire, it falling to a small mound of black ash on his desk and he jumped from his desk to quickly meddle with the fireplace. The second he opened the floo network a man in a sweeping black cloak steeped out. He looked down at Mr. Turner and Mr. Turner jerked back from the man.


“Yaxley is just fine, Mr. Turner. I presume you received my letter? A little late if you ask me,” he snarled.

“Sorry, sir,” mumbled Mr. Turner.

“Well, well, well,” said Yaxley, glancing at Mr. Turner’s office. “It is time for you to do what you were hired to do.”

“I’m not sure what that is,” replied Mr. Turner with his heart picking up pace.

Yaxley chuckled lightly. “That is right. No one has told you. You were being paid by Death Eaters to curse Pius Thicknesse.”

“Curse—curse the Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“Did I stutter?” snarled Yaxley. “Yes. Considering he is the head of the entire department and you fall under him, you can use the Imperius Curse. We will need him.”

“I am not capable of such a thing!” exclaimed Mr. Turner.

“But you were capable of this?” Yaxley slipped a fold Daily Prophet from his pocket and unfolded it right in front of his chest, the main page facing Mr. Turner.

“You—you knew?”

“Of course, we knew. You think you were so clever? You blew up the pyramid ten years ago, causing about fifty-seven people’s death and left twenty-three injured. That little anger of yours can get you in all sorts of trouble. Just because the tourism company did not want to give you a raise…” Yaxley now tutted at Mr. Turner.

“Who knows?” asked Mr. Turner in a whisper.

“Oh, just us Death Eaters. So, if you want to continue getting paid and moreover keep your secret safe…, I suggest you comply with the orders. I’m sure if you are capable of blowing up a pyramid and causing a massacre, what we ask of you will be nothing.”

“No,” said Mr. Turner, his voice crisp, but his voice vaguely crackled under the pressure, “I won’t do it!”

Yaxley cocked his eyebrow questioningly as he folded and slipped the newspaper back into his cloak’s pocket. “I suggest you rethink your answer.”

“I will not!”

Yaxley twirled his wand between the pads of his fingers as he stared at his wand. “Well, then I guess there is no use for you…” Quickly, Yaxley aimed his wand at Mr. Turner, yelling, “Avada Kedavra!”

Green light flashed and brightened up the room so much, the whole office saw the green light flashed through the slits of the blinds. As Mr. Turner was falling with no breath of life, Yaxley was stepping backwards in a crouch into the fire with floo powder in his hands. Mr. Jefferson bolted the door above, only seeing a black cloaked figure with his face shielded by the darkness of a hood. With a roaring bright emerald fire, Yaxley disappeared. Please, go ahead and imagine this all happening in one sweeping motion, but very slow. I said very slow. Very, very slow.

It didn’t take long for Aurors and investigators to be on the scene like flies on honey, buzzing around. There were no leads unfortunately for them. It was, of course, very fortunate for Yaxley who made sure to cover his tracks. Very fortunate for Yaxley, remember  not so fortunate for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The investigators were so pathetic, Rufus Scrimgeour, the minister, was disappointed, extremely disappointed. He was outright embarrassed by his team.  This murder by he was so sure it was at least Death Eaters would never be solved. It would make the Ministry look pathetic and had no sense of control. So, Rufus Scrimgeour did what he usually did. He didn’t want anyone to find out about Mr. Turner’s death or let alone that Mr. Turner even existed. So, he did what he had to do.

And Rufus Scrimgeour always made sure to cover everything up…



The moral of the story is to stay away from Death Eaters and don’t do bad things like blow things up. Oh, and not to get so angry. And how about not accepting payment from mysterious bad people? As simple as that…Did you—did you just say you want— want to go to the dark side?... No, I don’t care if they offer you cookies. You stay right here. Okay, go since they are offering you cookies, go and end up like Mr. Turner! I don’t care! Go ahead! Bye! Oh, so now you’re all leaving, huh? For some cookies? Disgraceful, you lot. Fine, fine. We are done here. Good-bye.  

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