Dope Muggle


My own Harry Potter Fan-Fiction Novel
One Chapter every month. Only here, on this website.


Department of Mysteries, Ministry of Magic

Daniel was the first person to enter the Hall of Prophecy since 1996. That was the year when the battle between Dumbledore’s Army and the Death Eaters destroyed nearly twenty percent of the Hall’s records.

Today was the day that the Ministry would finally take stock.

Daniel Thomas, seventeen-year-old Hufflepuff and nephew to Dean Thomas, was well on his way to becoming a very fine Auror-recruit. But on this day, nearly one hundred days of his internship to the Director of the Department of Aurors yet remained. As such, he’d had the fine fortunes of having been personally selected by Director to catalogue the Hall of Prophecy.

Daniel looked down at his notepad. There was a real-time counter in the upper right-hand corner of the page.

You have catalogued 2% of the Hall of Prophecy. 

“Fucking dragon-shit-balls,” Daniel sighed.

What was it that Minister of Magic Hermione Granger had told him in the elevator? That the task would test his ingenuity and build character?

At this rate, Daniel would be lucky if he’d catalogued any more than 20% of the Hall by the end of his internship.

He sat down cross-legged in the middle of the floor, utterly defeated.

What could he do to speed things up here? When in doubt, try magic. He knew that some witch or wizard, somewhere in the world, had probably created a charm or a spell for this - but he didn’t know what it might be. Might as well try something.

“What the hell, let’s give this a try. Computatis nomina,” Daniel spoke, tapping the notepad with his wand.

Suddenly, names and current occupations began to fill in on the page. It worked! One by one, they appeared in the left-hand side of the Excel document, and the page scrolled as the names continued. In the columns next to the subject’s name was their current occupation, and place of residence.

“I’m awesome,” Daniel said.

Now all that remained would be to compare the list with the contents of the most previous official prophecy audit, and Daniel figured he could probably ask Sarah in the Treasury if she knew any magic for that.

Daniel began to flip through the pages, glancing at the names.

Then something bizarre happened.

Whereas most of the names were written in standard black ink, there was one name written in a pale green. Just one. But the words were impossible. It was perhaps stranger than anything he’d seen during his internship so far.

Cillian Williams - American Muggle, London.

C H A P T E R • O N E

Every night, Cillian woke up drenched in sweat from night terrors. A past life played out on the inside of his eyelids like raging psychotropic trips that he couldn’t run away from, couldn’t escape. A life that once awoke, would fade away into what his mind told him was merely fantasy.

This morning was the same.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Cillian convinced himself in that quick, ironic breathless style tinge he picked up from a good habit of zero cocaine and a bad habit of too much Andy Samberg. They’re like, the same thing though, right? Same diff, same diff.

Cillian sat up. He looked to his left. Fuck my life.

There was his batshit insane ex-girlfriend. He’d enjoyed the sex, he’d loved the sex, but that’s all it was. Not drunk, but definitely buzzed, and definitely a bad idea.

She stirred.

“Morning, stud muffin,” Stella said.

“Stella, get your shit and get out,” Cillian said.

She smiled. She grabbed his cock. He knew what she was going to do next, and he really wanted some. He thought about it, he really did, but he knew what it would mean.

“Bitch, nah,” Cillian said. He grabbed her wrist and threw her off the mattress. She landed on the carpet with a thud.

“No more favors. Get the fuck out.” 

“Fine!” Stella shouted, stomping to her feet. “You can be a real fucking asshole sometimes.” She bent down and picked up her clothes, throwing them on quickly.

“I’m just not keen on the idea of you breaking all my shit again. And stop rocking my fucking boat,” Cillian said.

Stella laughed hysterically. She grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter and slammed the door on her way out.

Cillian breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Uneventful, thank God.

The last time they’d fucked it was like a train wreck the next morning, and then came the fire tornado from hell. In the three years they’d lived together, every time she’d ever given him morning blow - she’d always wanted a favor, and he’d always relented. After all, she’d said, you don’t get something for nothing. One time, she’d wanted him to fix the plumbing in her house. Another time, she’d asked him to confront one of her pervert coworkers. Cillian took the guy into the alley out behind the office and beat the shit out of him. After that, he was done. No more.

Three weeks prior, he told her off, and she blew up like fireworks. She grabbed a kitchen knife and tore up his pillows, knocked over his potted plants, and smashed the shit out of his vintage Firesign Theatre vinyl record collection. Screamed at him the whole time about him being a selfish prick, which might have been true to some degree, but when she tore out the pages of his vintage copy of The Silmarillion, he lost his shit.

He started to choke her, but that only turned her on again, and they wound up fucking again on the floor.

Stella was fucking insane. Some sort of succubus, probably.

Cillian laughed. Strange that he should think of that, it reminded him of his dreams. His dreams of late were more troubling than usual. It used to be Afghanistan dominating his nightscapes, but the War had been a long way off for him now. Albeit, nothing had changed. America was still at war.

With drugs, and with terror.

But in the last few months, he’d been dreaming of strange things far beyond the trials of his war. It was an entirely different kind of war in his dreams. A war of good and evil. A magical war. He’d been dreaming of dragons, goblins, and magic tricks. And it was terrible. All that death, all that pain. At the end of it all, there was always child’s toy, broken in two halves, washed up with the tides.

It was always the same dream.

Then he would wake up and be glad to be rid of it all. He chastised himself for having fallen prey to his gullible nature. For a few seconds every morning, he would wonder if it was all real. It had always felt so real, so vivid. For a few seconds every morning, he wondered if magic might be real.

Then he would shake his head, and laugh to himself.

Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids. After all, there’s no such thing as magic.

He kicked his legs over the side of his mattress, and stood up to yawn a very manly yawn. Always a manly yawn - Stella had always told him that his voice was too loud. Another reason they’d split.

He glanced down at the floor and frowned. She’d left her panties on the floor. Most likely to use an excuse to just swing by later on, date to be determined. There would probably be more fucking, and more yelling.

That’s all they were to each other now. Neither one of them had yet to meet a better shag, but they couldn’t be left in the same room with each other without ripping each other’s heads off. They were one another’s own malfunctioning living sex toy.

“Fuck,” Cillian sighed.

The boat rocked as he walked to the kitchen. For the better part of a year and a half now, Cillian lived in a remodeled old dutch houseboat that was moored up in front of the Heathwall Pumping station just east of the Nine Elms Pier. It was furnished all of that fancy modern Ikea shit that he’d read in some magazine that would “make it pop,” and there was an overall Star Wars theme to it.

BB-8 wallpaper, a Millennium Falcon bluetooth speaker, and a propane heater shaped like the Death Star, among many other things.

The final push was that when he bought this barge two years ago, he’d officially renamed it the STARFIGHTER X. Damn straight. He loved getting coffee at the Black Cab and telling complete strangers that his house was called the Starfighter X. It was fucking awesome.

A bonus was that Stella hated Star Wars.

He switched on the television. It was tuned to the local news. Immediately, he was bombarded with the face of Donald Trump.

“… no collusion. There was no collusion!” the face spoke.

Cillian quickly switched the television over to the weather channel, and was greeted by the dulcet tones of mozart and live doppler radar tracking.

“Fucking lunatic,” Cillian swore. He did not need that this morning.

His phone buzzed. A text message appeared. It was from his boss, a Diplomat at the American Embassy.

“TRUMP JUST FIRED MY FUCKING ACCOUNTANT. Sometimes I feel like committing treason, ya know? Dan has been working in this office for sixteen years and that dump truck just fired him,” the text read.

Cillian laughed. Apparently, there was no escape. Trump was everywhere. Another reason he knew that magic wasn’t real. None of those wizards in his dreams would have let that garbage person of a man run the most powerful country in the world. They would have crashed his car and made him forget who he was before they let him become President.

“Should I come in?” Cillian asked.

“Nah man, you’ve got the day off. But Atkinson has been asking about you.”

Atkinson. The strangest man in the Embassy. He was an old CIA goon who had an eyepatch over one eye and a prosthetic arm. And he was always talking about the dangers of this threatening world. He taught the annual course on antiterrorism. Nobody was quite sure how old he was, but he would tell stories of Dick Helms and Robert Ames like it was yesterday, still fresh in his mind. Damn commies had me hanging by my balls, but I showed them, was one of his more popular fish tales.

“What about?” Cillian asked.

“Not sure. But it’s probably nothing.”

“Cool. See you on Monday.”

It was time for some coffee.

C H A P T E R • T W O:

Coffee. Damn, this Black Cab Coffee was some addictive shit. In the last six months, since their previous CEO had been issued a vote of no confidence and removed from his position for running a cocaine smuggling operation through North Africa along with his coffee shipments - the quality of the cup had gotten a lot better.

Whereas before, the coffee was just for show - now it was the main product.

And without having to focus so much time and energy on an illegal drugs operation, the company was actually making more money now than it was when it was selling cocaine.

Cillian laughed. He brought the warm cup to his face and inhaled the steam. He smiled.

So warm, he thought.

The weather outside had been dreadfully cold the past few months. There was ice on the ground this morning. It was probably around 15º fahrenheit today?

He couldn’t know for sure though. He hadn’t actually been watching the Weather Channel back on his boat, he just liked to have it on in the background sometimes. Like gogurt. Or yoga.

He also loved it when they would cut to breaking news and show hours upon hours of tornadoes and hurricanes tearing the shit out of things, tearing entire structures from the ground, schools upending and even helicopters falling out of the sky. Watching shit get wrecked was almost hilarious.

Cillian had kind of a dangerous streak that ran through him like that - and it was most likely just his way of relieving the pent-up stress and tension that came from working at the Embassy. He thought it was funny when things broke, or people tripped over shit.

Once, a Marine showed him a YouTube video of a Navy SEAL falling off the side of a cliff in Afghanistan. Cillian burst out laughing, and the Marine looked at him like he was fucking crazy.

“Seaman Roswell lost his life at the bottom of that cliff,” the Marine had said.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Cillian had replied.

But even now, knowing that, every time he watched that video - he would always burst out in a laughter that stemmed from deep within his gut.

That isn’t to say that Cillian didn’t appreciate beautiful things, or in any way diminishes his artistic spirit. For the entire reason that Cillian came to this particular coffee company every morning on his way to work, and sat at the window overlooking the River Thames - was to see the sunrise over the river, and chant Gregorian in his mind. This was his solace, his comfort, and this was his real soul. This was the place he came to, to be who he was before he ever joined-up. Before he moved to London.

Before he had ever killed anyone.

It was like stepping into a time machine for an entire hour every morning.

And right now was the Golden Hour on the Thames. When the sun was in the perfect spot in the sky to cast a golden hew over everything, just before the sky brightened to a monotoned Cumulonimbus gray.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he swam in the warmth of his Mocha.

Suddenly, Cillian was thrown-off by a shadow that seemed to engulf his entire table. He glanced up and saw a man standing in the window - staring at him intensely.

“Jesus Christ!” Cillian swore under his breath.

It was Atkinson - eyepatch and all - just fucking standing there like the same character he was in all of his stories, leaning slightly forward, eye slightly squinted - analyzing Cillian. Atkinson was a statue.

And then he moved.

Atkinson walked into the cafe and sat down on the wooden barstool just next to Cillian.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Cillian asked.

Atkinson didn’t say anything. He just sat there, watching him with his one good eye.

“I need to speak with you. Come to my office as soon as possible,” Atkinson grumbled, and then he stood up to leave.

Whenever Atkinson spoke it was in a low grumble, and it was like he was complaining about uncooked steak.

“Can we not talk here?” Cillian asked.

“Are you a fucking terrorist? We can’t discuss anything in the one cafe within three blocks of the Embassy, you fucking idiot. Half the people in this place are Chinese spies. The other half are from the GCHQ. So… what? No, we never talk here. Come to my office when you get in. No need to rush. I know this place is special to you. Take your time,” Atkinson grumbled. Then he picked himself up and half-limped his way through the doors, grumbling something to someone outside.

“Yes, Sir. Will do, Sir,” Cillian said, sarcastically.


Atkinson was a fucking dinosaur, but Cillian only knew that from the stories that he would tell, and that others would tell about him. The thing is, if Cillian hadn’t already known better, he would have sworn the man was only in his forties.

And yet in Atkinson’s age came a wisdom of ghosts, and he was always scanning the room for the motherfucker that gave him the eyepatch, forever ready to tear the guy’s esophagus out with his bare hands.

As swiftly as Atkinson had appeared, he had gone as if evaporated.

Motherfucking cowboy-ninja shit right there.

The golden hues of the sunrise were at their most perfection.


”Only the dead, Sir. Only the dead know my pain.”

“But you’re not dead.”

“Not yet. Sure as shit do I feel like it most days, Sir.”

Cillian was in his mandatory monthly quack meeting, as ordered by the Company’s Chief Medical Officer.

Company. That was an interesting euphemistic feint of a word, and coincidentally, remarkably accurate. The Company. That’s what popular culture had taken to calling the CIA. It gave the impression that the entire world behind shadows and smoke was as bureaucratic and monotonous as working at a cubicle in some big city and reading through laboratory reports on the chemical nature of the rubber used in number 2 pencil erasers, or deciding to authorize expenditures on a new type of pink food coloring in museum gift shop donut sprinkles.

And these mandatory psych evaluations only went on to legitimize that aura of overall boredom.

“Tell me about these dreams. Have you been having them recently?”

“Every fucking night, Sir. Every night.”

“And what are these dreams about?” The doctor asked.

“Oh, you know… wizards, witches, magic castles,” Cillian said.

“Mr. Williams, if you’re not going to take this seriously-“

“Or what, Doc? I thought you weren’t supposed to pass judgement?”

The doctor paused for a moment, obviously frustrated.

“Indeed not, Mr. Williams. This is a safe space. Please do - continue,” the doctor said.

“This is what I dream about, Sir. I dream about things that don’t exist because they’re my fucking dreams, Doctor. I dream about dragon fire raining from the sky - and I can’t get away. I dream about wizards picking people up with their minds, and choking them. I dream about these things, and they seem so real. I can feel the heat on my skin, the searing pain, the emotions of loosing people that I care about and that I love. It’s all so real - but then I wake up. I wake up, and I remember that these are dreams. They’re just dreams, Doc. They have no bearing on reality - they mean nothing,” Cillian sighed.

“How is your diet?”

“Good. Fine. Most of my food is from the cafeteria downstairs.”

“How much sleep have you been getting?”

“I get eight hours a night.”


“Yeah, Doc. I’m the picture of perfect health.”

But being here isn’t helping.

“Tell me about Donovan Conroy,” the Doctor asked.

Cillian froze. He did not want to talk about Donovan Conroy. He would have preferred to take the name itself and vanish it from the record of all history - and yet it was only every time he walked past a mirror that the face of him would come back.

“You know all about that, Doctor.”

“You’re not leaving this room until you talk about it. Talking does help, Cillian. And by the looks of things, I’m the only one around that you can talk to about him.”

“You mean because it’s classified?”

“That’s one part of it. The other part is that honestly you don’t have a whole lot of friends here. A lot of coworkers, and even someone you manage to hook up with every now and then, but these are the kinds of things you talk about with friends. It’s hard to make friends in this business - so I’m probably the next best option.”

“I killed Donovan Conroy, Doctor.”


“I infiltrated his organization, I pretended to be his friend, and then I killed him.”

“How does that make you feel.”

“The Senate Intelligence Committee said it was a job well done.”

“The patient is being uncooperative-“

“Fine. Alright. You want the truth? I don’t want to think about it. I’d rather not dwell, because if I did, I might never come back. There are only a few degrees of separation from a life taken in the line of duty, and a life taken in vain. A split second can make someone a monster. I’d rather like to pretend for the rest of my days on this planet that someone else pulled the trigger, and that I was merely an observer to the show. Someone along for the ride. But know this - Donovan Conroy was a bad man. He was a monster, and he really was as bad as they come. I have no regrets when it comes to that man, Doc. Not a single one.”

The psychologist wrote some things in his little notebook.

Probably doodling little pictures of dwarves riding horses.

The doctor handed Cillian a small piece of paper. On it were written the doctor’s name, mailing address, and the name of a narcotic. Valium.

“Take it or leave it, Cillian,” the doctor said.

Cillian felt insulted. He held the prescription in his hands, and felt a scowl forming on his face. His muscles tensed. He looked at the doctor in the eyes, took his two hands and tore the paper in half.

“We done here?” 

“You’re cleared to resume active operations.”

“Thank fuck.”