Semiautomagic

"Your Occlumency is terrible, babe. I know you're thinking about me."

I hate nightclubs.

"Wow, how did you know? I just noticed how repulsive you look. Got hit by the ugly stick, eh?"

For three reasons.

"Hey, gorgeous, I'd like to be the bowtruckle in your secret garden."

That would be Reason Number One: the patrons. More specifically, the quality and concentration of said patrons. On one hand, you have the bar, where recent Hogwarts grads and creepy over-the-hill Ministry powerbrokers are brought together by the prospect of booze. On the other hand, you have the dance floors, roiling pits of humanity, all wandering hands and swaying hips. Personal space was nonexistent; people flitted in and out of my comfort zone, leering at everything from my neck down.

"Why don't you finish tending to your dad's and then we'll talk, hmm?"

Which brings me to Reason Number Two: required attire. All feminine garments must a) be backless, b) feature a plunging neckline, c) bare the midriff, or d) have an annoyingly short hemline. I'd gone with e) all of the above, a.k.a. guaranteed admission. Even plastered with a roll of double-sided tape, I was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. Not my preferred way to draw attention. Call me old fashioned, but I like it when people talk to my face, which is hard enough as it is. Give me a proper shirt and jeans any day.

But my apparent lack of modesty got me past the bouncer, through the doors, and straight to Reason Number Three: the mandatory wand check. It seemed a little excessive, stripping away my best friend at the entrance. "For the patron's protection," they explained. "When the alcohol starts to flow, those Unforgivable Curses start looking better and better." A brilliant example sat to my left, the bastard who's been "accidentally" brushing against my bare shoulder for the last half hour. He could do with a little dyin'. And the imbecile behind me, the one ogling my bum, he could do with a little hurtin'. And that group of... Okay, so they do have a valid point. Still, parting with one of my wands, even temporarily, was a little heartbreaking.

"Baby, let's play some Quidditch. You be the Keeper and I'll be the broomstick."

Anyhow, the important thing was that I had managed to smuggle a wand (yes, I was able to hide another one on my person) into the most exclusive club this side of the Thames: the Crucifix Lounge. And I certainly wasn't wasting this opportunity. Nursing a soda within sight of the basement access stairwell, I was hoping to meet a certain Lounge regular, Mr. Kenneth Darby. Single. Wealthy. Handsome. Respectable standing in the magical community. Enjoys wizard chess, long walks on the beach, and the occasional duel. You know, someone with a smidge of that bad boy charm.

"Oh gosh, that's a tempting offer, but it'd take too long to sterilize your broomstick. You know, from all the time it's spent crammed up your -"

The earpiece lurking beneath my auburn tresses crackled to life, Archeron interrupting my oh-so-witty response. "Contact inbound."

"I see him. Close to you, Cori, dance floor, between the flamethrowers, next to the third caged dancer. He's all yours."

A quick glance in that general direction confirmed Missy's statement. "Lucky me," I sighed, just loud enough for the microphone imbedded in my choker to transmit.

I took a couple of deep breaths. The sooner I do this, the sooner it'll be over. The sooner I do this, the sooner it'll be over. And I dove into the tangled mess of flapping hemlines and unbuttoned shirts, doing my best to ape the sheep around me. Come on, look this way, look this way.

Missy came back online. "Relax! You're young, you're sexy, you're here to have fun. There you go, move with the crowd - Cori! No need to hit him that hard, he didn't mean to touch your - stop that! Just move along, move a - "

"Shut up, shut up," I growled, rubbing my bruised knuckles.

"Touchy, touchy. Remember, eye contact! And goddammit, smile like you mean it. All right, he's looking..."

There. Our eyes met. I unleashed my best come-hither smile and a little part inside me died. You know, that part labeled "principles." But lo and behold, Darby's eyes ceased wandering, locking onto my hazel pair. Finally, someone captivated by my eyes rather than other, more prominent bits! I felt somewhat warm and fuzzy inside.

Darby swept into a little bow when he reached me, somehow avoiding contact with the idiots around us. I extended an arm, wrist bent delicately, allowing his lips to brush my fingers, letting him draw me closer. Draping my arms around his neck, I leaned in, breathing a sensual whisper in his ear.

"Imperio."

The Floating-Point wand, surgically implanted in my right arm parallel to the radius and ulna, conveyed the Imperius Curse from my palm to his left shoulder. He stiffened - DANCE. - and started shaking his moneymaker like a drunken prom date. "Hooked him," I whispered, pulling Darby close, inconspicuously rummaging through his pockets. "He's got one."

Missy smiled. "Nice. See you outside."

Thus did Darby and I boogie our way out of the club, stopping only to pick up our confiscated wands. Make that my second, non-implanted wand. Then we waded through the mindless hordes outside, still waiting for a turn in the little club of horrors. Damn lemmings.

Melissa Haley Anderton, better known as Missy, caught up as we emerged from the impatient crowd. Blonde with baby blues, petite, indecently cheerful, noxiously cute, and a host of other annoyingly wholesome qualities. Think head cheerleader without the arrogance and propensity for drama. "Pretty, isn't he?" she noted, giving Darby the ol' up and down. "Shame we have to kill him."

"We need two more, you know."

"Spoilsport. After we meet his friends, then."

"Sounds like a plan. Arch, we're out," I directed at my choker.

A set of headlights blazed to life across the street, turning towards the club. From the shadows emerged a magenta minivan, built to make a soccer mom proud. At the helm was the last musketeer of our trio, Archeron Shaw. Lean, with impossibly pale Chinese features framed by the blackest of hair, general consensus deemed Arch a little too eerie to be genuinely attractive. Maybe it's the way he looked at you, a little too cold and calculating. Maybe it's the way he talked to you, a little too detached and impersonal. But I swear, once you get past all that, he's rather pleasant company. Short-winded? Yes. Someone I'd waste my final moments with as the world ends? Definitely.

"Clothes! Now!" I demanded as he pulled up to the curb. Robes emerged from the minivan's window, dropping into my arms. I draped the cloth over what little I was wearing, uneasiness evaporating. It was good to be properly covered again. "Thanks."

With that pressing detail dealt with, it was back to the mission. "Where's the truth serum?" I asked, hauling the van's armoured sliding door out of the way.

The small entrance gave way to a studio-sized room doing its best impression of an armoury and an operating room. At the same time. Did I mention the armour plating? Why yes, yes I did. And the vehicle flies! In other words, this ain't your mama's minivan.

"Refrigerator." Like I said, short-winded.

Missy emerged from the cooling unit, eyedropper in hand. "I've got to make some more, this is the last of it," she sighed.

Open up. Darby obliged, of course, allowing Missy to empty the eyedropper down his throat. Next on the to-do list: strap him to the chair. Stainless steel and sturdy, it was designed to survive a nuclear blast and keep on truckin'. Sit. And I broke out the handcuffs, one for each appendage. Just in case.

I let the Imperius Curse dissipate as the Veritaserum coursed through Darby's system and Missy got to work. "Are you Kenneth Jason Samuel Charles Darby of 1138 Fallen Leaf?"

"Yes."

"Are you currently a member of the Snatcher organization called Shield Web, operating out of Newham?"

"Yes."

Bingo. Identity confirmed.

"Excluding yourself, how many of the other members have Ministry contacts?" Missy pressed on.

"Two."

Perfect, just enough to go around.

"How are meetings arranged?"

"I send owls with times and locations. Then they Apparate in."

Missy sighed. "We don't have enough time for that. Any emergency mobilization protocols?"

"Yes. Patronus contact, yellow sparks, and Taboo usage."

Standard, standard, and standard. If I had to pick one, Taboo's probably the fastest and most reliable of the three. "Which word activates the Taboo?" I cut in.

"You-Know-Who's name."

Okay, not so standard. But workable. Missy looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "We going with the Taboo?"

I nodded.

"I'll dress him up, then." She tapped her chin with lavender nails. "Now, where can we do this... you know what? I know just the place."

It was obscenely late when everyone was finally situated according to plan. Darby was once again under the Imperius Curse (this time by Missy), suspiciously bulky under his robe. He was a picture of loneliness, waiting by himself in the derelict North Woolwich railway station. Missy was sitting pretty across the tracks, in someone's front yard, pulling Darby's strings. Arch, being Arch, was off skulking in the shadows somewhere. As for me, I was in my element: prone on a flying carpet, hovering a kilometre away from any potential danger.

Of course, when there's potential danger involved, one must dress in black. Exhibit A: Batman. Exhibit B: Vader. Exhibit C: the three of us. Black Nomex flightsuit and gloves, black body armor, black combat boots, matte black ballistic facemask painted with an anatomically matching black gloss skull. Because black is scary. Not that anyone would see it of course, swathed as we were in Invisibility Cloaks. Still, psychological effect and all that.

"Lock, on station," I transmitted, toggling my CheyTac Intervention's telescopic sight to Voyeur mode. With the ability to see through walls and Invisibility Cloaks, the scope faded the station's blinds, stone, and sheet metal to translucency, leaving Darby the only opaque object in sight.

"Shock, ready," Arch reported in.

"Barrel, in position. Taboo in three, two, one..."

And suddenly, Darby wasn't alone: four wizards Apparated into the station, four wands pointed at his head. Then came a whole lot of pointless yelling and stabbing fingers. Huh. That response was unfriendlier than anticipated.

"Fire in the hole," announced Missy.

Somewhere beneath Darby's robes, the receiver sewn into his vest intercepted her remote's electromagnetic signal, activating the electrical detonator. The C-4 payload, distributed among several pockets, expanded in a cloud of fire and compressed air; the shockwave ripped open the plastic bags packed around the explosives, sprinkling the air with thirty pounds of ball bearings.

In other words, we splattered them pretty good. Darby I'm pretty sure was dead, judging by the pieces scattered about. One of the others, he with the gaping hole in the cranium, was probably enjoying the new farm. The last three were in various states of pain and consciousness, but otherwise alive.

And welcome, boys and girls, to Anti-Wizard Combat 101. Lesson Number One: whenever possible, engage wizards via proxies to minimize risk. Especially effective if said proxy has close ties to your target; friends and family relations work especially well. See above example.

Arch 'ported into my crosshairs, an H&K USP CT pistol nestled in his right hand, to rectify the survivor issue. With casual nonchalance, he introduced all five Snatchers, dead or alive, to a single bullet in the brainpan. Just in case.

Lesson Number Two: no quarter. Kill any and all wounded combatants; sorcerers have a nasty habit of healing themselves and/or others.

"Kenneth's friends weren't happy to see him, were they?" Missy wondered out loud. "And the Taboo... strange they chose 'Voldemort,' of all - "

A prolonged burst of static interrupted her transmission, followed by a hastily shouted "Protego!"

Another explosion rocked the street, smothering my silly queries of "Barrel? Barrel!"

Her voice came back online. "Ten tangos, my position. I could use a little - AVADA KEDAVRA - help here!"

"Coming, coming," I sighed, circumventing the residential units obscuring my field of fire. "Hope they have what we need. Could use some extra, just in case."

Missy leapt into sharp relief through my telescopic sights, on the run, Invisibility Cloak shredded, a Shield Charm arrayed between her and ten... Snatchers, apparently, decked out in the prerequisite black cloaks. The way they flushed Missy from cover... more organized and better prepared than Darby's lot, that's for sure. Para-military, from the look of things, overlapping firing lanes and moving as a cohesive whole. "They damn well better," she gritted, "Cori, fire support, bearing..." A green streak leaked through her shield, winging by her left shoulder. "Oh, bugger this."

From her little black backpack emerged a full-sized M249E4 Squad Automatic Weapon, locked and loaded. As her Shield Charm dissipated, Missy slid prone and cut loose.

With ten deafening pops, they Apparated behind her, avoiding the bullets.

The Dementor Wannabes made two mistakes. One, they Apparated well away from Missy, removing her from my field of fire. And two, they neglected to take cover.

My barrel-mounted laser rangefinder clocked in the distance to the Lame Reapers. The sensors read in data, including humidity and air pressure, which was fed to the ballistic software on my mil-spec PDA. There, numbers were crunched and I adjusted the CheyTac's crosshairs accordingly, leading my victim slightly.

Breathe in. Breathe out and squeeze the trigger.

The silencer muffled the shot into something resembling a noisy nailgun, not quite loud enough for the Cult Rejects to notice. The .408 round punched through my victim's left orbital socket like an acetylene torch through paper.

Breathe in. Breathe out and squeeze the trigger.

This time the bullet slid in below the target's skull, perforating his carotid and oesophagus. He went down, hands clutching at his throat. Still alive. Crap. I inserted three more rounds into his torso for good measure.

Five bullets. Eject empty magazine. Reload.

"Clear lane, west." Male voice, which meant... I swung my targeting reticule away from the left flank of the firefight, creating a bullet-free corridor for Arch to enter. He 'ported in silently behind the left most tango and disappeared almost instantly, leaving red mist and a corpse in his wake. A second Black Cloak went down; I watched in horrid fascination as Arch opened up the Snatcher's jugular with an automatic knife before shanking him in the brain stem. Two strikes and Arch was gone again.

Which leads us to Lesson Number Three: wizards excel at midrange combat. Only midrange combat. Up close and personal? The wizard's screwed; there are no known hand-to-hand practitioners in the magical community. Widen the gap? The wizard's screwed; a sniper beats a spellslinger any day. I can reach out and touch a victim at two kilometres; a conjurer's lucky if he hits the broadside of a barn at that range.

Missy, not to be outdone by our carnage, stowed the M249E4 into her little backpack and hauled out - you guessed it - an M32 grenade launcher. She sighted in and unloaded all six barrels at the remaining six tangos, sowing the street with shrapnel. And then there were three, saved by a freakish combination of reflexes, luck and Shield Charms.

Three smart bastards, it turns out. They turned to teleport -

"Lockdown," Arch stated. With a faint thrum, his Anti-Disapparition Jinx blanketed the area, cutting off the Snatcher's escape.

They hesitated, taking a moment to realize Disapparition was no longer a viable option. I took the opportunity to pop another one in the head.

The two survivors wheeled around, eyes locking on their sole visible antagonist: Missy.

She was quicker on the draw, with a whispered "Trunco." Missy didn't miss. An explosion ripped through her victim's thighs, searing through bone and muscle, amputating both legs in a vague splash of red. The single, most gut-wrenching scream I've ever heard ripped through the night air.

Black Cloak II, somehow ignoring his buddy's bloodcurdling shriek, oriented toward Missy with unneighbourly intentions. "AVADA - "

Arch's silent Disarming Spell interrupted the tango. With another lazy flick of the wrist, he neatly bisected the Snatcher's wand mid-flight. Dead useful that spell is, Sectumsempra.

Lesson Number Four: always separate wand from wizard. A wizard without a wand is defenceless. And a defenceless wizard is a dead wizard. Therefore, to inspire the proper panic in your opponent, take his wand out of the equation.

Case in point: Black Cloak II rushed Arch's general location. Empty-handed.

Arch calmly drew his USP and executed the man at twenty paces.

The Legless Wonder got a matching hole from me.

A good night's work, if I do say so myself. Arch and I looted the bodies, searching for distinct gold tokens proclaiming MOM, like the one I took off of Darby earlier. Missy was right on our heels, Transfiguring the bodies: a shredded tire here, a candy wrapper there. As the sirens began closing in, we counted our chips, piled into the van and took to the sky, leaving North Woolwich a little messier than before.

All this trouble for three coins (okay seven, we met more Snatchers than anticipated). Thanks to some idiots hopped up on Polyjuice, Ministry security was tighter than it was in September; these tokens were only valid for a window of twenty-four hours. We were on hour number sixteen. That meant a direct trip to makeup and wardrobe. Gone was the assault gear; a girl's gotta look good (and inconspicuous) while committing acts of terrorism, after all.

We arrived at the Ministry in time to join the morning rush. I have to say, the public-restroom-as-entrance concept is a shining example of Ministry incompetence; if any Muggle with half a brain noticed the one-way bathroom traffic, there'd be annoying questions to answer. You ask me, masking the Ministry entrance with a movie theatre or hotel would've provided the needed subtlety. After all, people routinely disappear into such places for hours at a time.

It also would have allowed us to avoid the unsanitary result of combining the word "public" with bodily functions. I tentatively treated a worn stall like a vending machine, sliding one of the tokens into coin slot. Good, the coins passed inspection. I approached the toilet with some trepidation, dipping a steel toe into the bowl. Okay, so I knew this wasn't actually a restroom, but hey, it's against human nature to willingly step into a toilet bowl, real or not. A pleasant dry sensation crawled up my legs. Whew, one obstacle hurdled.

My hand paused before the chain, allowing me a moment to focus. The next part would be tricky, requiring speed and precision. One guard at the fireplace, to the right, looking for intruders. Aim for red. Breathe in, breathe out.

I flushed the toilet.

Security-two-o'clock- "Obliviate!" I whispered. The memory charm hit the red-robed guard before he registered my presence; it took a second to amend my name and face to his mental list of Ministry employees. As his eyes refocused, he waved me through. "Looking good today, Corinne."

It took me a moment to realise I was standing in a fireplace; now that was some insane logic, connecting a u-bend to a hearth. "Thanks," I said as I stepped out.

And I was in. My heart rate slowed down. Fact of life: if you make it past security, people assume you belong there. With a few superficial changes - raccoon eyes and blush to blur my features, black and red streaks to obscure my hair colour, purple contacts to re-colour my eyes - and a bulky grey cloak, I was yet another cog in the Ministry grinder.

Okay, where am... ah, the Atrium, if memory serves. The ridiculously conspicuous statue (comprised of a witch, a wizard, and a chair of humanity) gave it away. Big, bold, totalitarian, adorned with painfully obvious symbolism and a "Noun is Noun" slogan, all very Big Brother. They were obviously trying very hard to impress us mortals.

Arch, looking rather nondescript in black, found me first, followed seconds later by Missy. She twitched an eyebrow at the monstrosity of a statue before the morning crowd swept us away, pulling us through the gates and into one of the waiting elevators.

Unfortunately, we had to endure the sardine-like confines for seven stops, a minor eternity. I gratefully leapt free of the golden grilles when the elevator finally announced, "Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

Now, calling me claustrophobic is kind of harsh. I suffer from enclosure sickness, thank you very much.

"Come on, this way," Missy whispered.

My boots sank into rich purple carpet, sinfully soft, even through the rubber soles. As I followed her deeper into the labyrinth of corridors, my fingers trailed along the polished stone walls, slick to the touch, Spartan in their beauty; the absence of natives only served to emphasize the muted elegance. A sudden urge to join the Ministry reared its ugly head.

An arm reached out, pushing me against spotless marble. Missy, preventing me from rounding the corner. "Watch where you're going," she hissed. "We're here."

Okay then. I drew my HK pistol with practiced ease, thumbing the safety off and pulling the hammer before the barrel cleared my tactical thigh rig. I missed my M4A1, but then again, assault rifles aren't exactly concealable. Ah well. Glass half full.

With a whispered "Go," Missy rounded the bend, USP up and tracking, with me right on her heels. I caught vague glimpses of desks, chairs, floating parchment, a dozen desk jockeys, and two security types. The pair of Red Riding Hoods got the first rounds. The paper pushers got the rest. We gunned down everyone in that large room, coldly, efficiently.

Now, before you start mentioning things like "human rights" and quoting the Geneva Convention, I might hasten to add that we were slinging bullets of the rubber variety, laced with Sedative Spells and designed to incapacitate. Sure, it might hurt like hell, but hey, at least they're alive to experience the pain.

Missy darted through the shower of pamphlets, making a beeline for a prominent mahogany door. I got a glimpse of the name Dolores and something about an Undersecretary before she blew the door off its hinges with a "Confringo!"

And lit off every Caterwauling Charm in our vicinity.

Merde, merde, MERDE! If Missy would use three brain cells and pause for two seconds, maybe it would occur to her that setting off alarms would be a bad idea. Decreases our chances of survival, so I've heard.

Well, that cut down our timetable rather severely. "Arch, get them out of here, NOW!" I roared over the C-Charm.

With a flick of his wrist, the unconscious jerked up like marionettes, as if suspended by invisible wires. Another flick - the limp bodies shuffled awkwardly out of the room, away from us and towards relative safety (which tends to be the same thing). Good. Now if the Ministry decided to storm the room, no bystanders would get caught in the crossfire. See, we're humanitarians too.

Missy tore out of the office, releasing two grey canisters as she crossed the threshold. The incendiary grenades skittered back the way she came, bouncing past the splintered mahogany. Two detonations, and Dolores had her own personal bonfire.

"TARGET CONFIRMED!" Missy screamed as she passed me. So this really was the headquarters of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, the Ministry's equivalent to the SS. That office really did belong to Dolores Umbridge, head of the MbRC. Those really were irreplaceable files of known Muggle-borns and blood traitors going up in smoke.

Time for my contribution.

"Ignitus." Fire erupted from my Floating Point, a stream of plasma that reduced everything it touched to ash. I scythed the torrent back and forth, erasing chairs, desks, and anti-Muggle-born propaganda from existence. And thus do I strike a blow for justice.

I turned and sprinted after Missy, navigating the maze of corridors at reckless speed, half-expecting a Killing Curse at every corner.

None came. In fact, we made it to the elevators with nary a red robe in sight. Huh. Maybe security wasn't so tight after all.

As the golden grilles closed, cutting off the C-Charm's screams, Missy tossed me a folder. "Got a souvenir for you."

"What's this?" I cracked open the file and found myself staring at a familiar Eurasian lady, auburn of hair, hazel of eyes. Me. An annoyed sigh; of all the photos floating around, they had to choose this one. I can explain the shredded clothing and the bruises on my neck, I really can. There was this giant Devil's Snare and all I had was this tiny lighter...

Anyway, attached to the picture were a few comments by an anonymous analyst, which read something like this:

CORINNE LAMBERT

BLOOD STATUS: Half-blood with unacceptable Muggle leanings. Known member of the terrorist group MM. Former member of Experimental Unit MM, Colonial Department of Mysteries. (MM - Magic is Mean? Murder and Mayhem?)
FAMILY: Thomas Lambert (father, Muggle), Irene Kwei (mother, half-blood), both residing in the United States. No known siblings.
SECURITY STATUS: This person has been designated UNDESIRABLE NO. 66. Guilty of murder, acts of terrorism and sedition, breaking and entering, impersonating a Ministry official, illegal use of Acid Pops. At large, considered armed and extremely dangerous. Last known sighting: Mould-on-the-Wold.

Awww, they sure know how to make a girl feel special.

I would have complimented the analyst's mental faculties (after all, such an accurate, glowing summary of my life is hard to come by) if it weren't for that bit of MM speculation. Honestly, the quality of Ministry staff these days... We dropped the original Mechanized Magic designation in favour of some ominous Latin: Malleus Maleficarum. No longer confined by Colonial DoM naming standards, we gave ourselves an appropriate, vaguely evil label.

Colonial. The magical community's love for all things old and rickety extends beyond the physical: despite two hundred years of independence, despite a population and land mass dwarfing the United Kingdom's, the American Ministry of Magic is still a British subsidiary. Unfortunately, archaic conditions like these are rampant throughout wizarding law. Off the top of my head, I can think of seventeen statutes dating back to the Crusades, four of which involve Muggles with catapults. And by blindly adhering to these obsolete laws, by purposely remaining ignorant of the modern world around us, we're responsible for the Muggle blood spilled everyday of this war. Did we warn the Muggles of the Dark Lord's return? Did we tell them how to defend themselves, what signs to look out for? Muggle casualties mount, and yet we do nothing.

This isn't a new phenomenon, not by any means. Muggles are ravaged everyday by drought, by famine. By pollution, by disease. We can create water out of thin air; we can teleport mass quantities of food with a thought. We can solve the world's energy crisis and alleviate the greenhouse effect at the same time. Hell, we have a cure for cancer. And yet, wizards sit on their laurels and are content to watch the world decay. Our experimental unit was created to counteract this apathy, to bridge the gap between the magical and non-magical. And we do. Just not the way originally imagined. Best laid plans and all that.

All right, all right, I'll get off my soapbox now.

"Undesirable Number Sixty Six?" I complained. "We have a two-digit body count and we haven't broken top fifty? Damn, who's number one?"

"Harry Potter," was Missy's reply.

Arch looked up, murder in his eyes. Um, let's just say he doesn't like Harry very much, not since Potter broke up with his dearest cousin. Now there was a memorable day: I found him with a foot in the fireplace and a duffel bag filled with goodies, ranging from pliers to hacksaws. While I don't remember how I talked him out of hauling across the pond and murdering the Chosen Boy Who Lived, I do remember something he said: "What does that Potter bitch know about loyalty?" Not quite sure what he was referring to, but damned if that wasn't the longest sentence I've heard him string together.

I veered off that subject at top speed; shouldn't mention Potter to Arch lest there be homicidal consequences. "Once we reach the Atrium, we should - "

A frigid shiver crawled up my spine, winding its way around my throat, constricting my windpipe. The walls suddenly dripped with despair, leeching away any warmth and happiness. Imagine a soul-crushingly sad song (I nominate the Cure's Same Deep Water as You), throw in dying kittens and King Lear, and you have a pretty good description of the chilly gloom permeating the atmosphere.

"Dementors," Missy whispered unnecessarily. Thank you Captain Obvious.

"Level Eight, Atrium."

The elevator cracked open, revealing row upon row of slimy scabbed hands and rattling breaths. A lumpy woman in black and gold stood at the forefront, graced with a velvet bow and a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. Dolores Umbridge, I presume. Flanking her were two men, one with pale and twisted features, the other rather brutal-faced (read: ugly).

Putain.

A twittering laugh emerged from Jabba. "You didn't expect to get away with this, did you?" Jesus Christ, that's one high-pitched voice. "Do you know what the Ministry does to - " Jabba's voice trailed off as she got a proper look at us. I wish I had a camera; her expression was priceless, as if she just swallowed something particularly sour, complete with bulging eyes and gaping mouth.

Missy stepped forward. "Hello, Mother."