It was after hours in the National Museum of Wizarding History.

Maximus enjoyed the quietness of the place - the dust floating in the lamplights; the faint humming of ancient textbooks; and the heavy eyes of the centuries old paintings. It was all so much clearer now, without witches and wizards from all over the world, stomping about. It was all even worse if they brought children (a young Australian boy had earlier that day thrown an Acid Pop at an 18th century portrait of a plump Italian witch who took Maximus almost two hours to calm down and stop screaming.)

After hours was also the time Maximus had the time to examine the objects. He had taken this internship at a recommendation from one of his mother’s friends. It was his last summer holiday before graduation, so why shouldn’t he look into possible jobs already? He had been extremely happy when he found out that he got it. Not that anyone else applied.

During the days his work was simple - clean up after visitors, answer questions about artefacts, sit in the till and to provide his mentor (the museum guard - Xerxes Witte) with a constant supply of nettle tea. But when the museum closed he was entrusted with missions of a more delicate nature.

This particular evening he had been given the task of soothing an old book of spells from northern Scandinavia. It had been giving off agonising moans all day and Witte thought that maybe one of the spells had become scared from the Italian portrait’s screams. Maximus had been eager to the task. It took him longer than it should have, but every opportunity he got of reading of old and ancient magic he took.

It was almost half past nine in the evening when he entered Witte’s small, and rather shabby office, with the (now quiet) book in his arms. Witte was sitting in his chair behind the desk, listening to Kip Baugh, Hitwizard and sipping at yet another cup of steaming nettle tea.

“Huckabee, my boy,” he exclaimed as Maximus walked in. “That ole book all nice and calm yet?”

“Yes,” Max answered, gently putting it down on the table. “It was the sixth chapter who was unsettled.”

“Yes,” Witte chuckled. “Always seems to be the sixth, ey?”

Maximus, not having a clue of what Witte was talking about, raised a confused eyebrow in return. Witte chuckled again, heaved himself out of his armchair and grabbed his cane.

“Think no more of it, boy. Let’s put the book back at it’s place”

They walked out of the office. Witte’s chattering and the cane’s rhythmic pounding echoed through the empty halls, while Maximus walked in silence. Witte often went on like this, telling stories from his youth or about difficult visitors, while Maximus rarely listened. He had heard them all in his first week at the job.

They reached the Scandinavian Exhibition and Witte leaned against the archway, panting.

“Just put it down next to Idunna Copper Apples over there,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Maximus walked in the direction Witte had pointed, stopped, then slowly turned around.

“Next to what?”

“Huckabee, you’ve seen them a thousand times before. The three big copper apples in a wooden box!”

“I can’t see them?”

“What do you mean you can’t see them? They’re right there!”

The silence that following Maximus and Witte realising that the display was empty was heavier than any silence the Museum had ever heard.