Angela Cross and the End All Spell

Angela Cross and the End-All Spell

--a Harry Potter Universe fanfiction--

Chapter Three

**Meeting with the Ministry**

"Just like home to you Muggle-borns, eh?!" shouted Mr. Weasley at the top of his lungs as wind from his open window thrashed across the entire compartment of the car and made hearing him almost impossible. "Like a drive to the corner market or moving-theater!"

Angela was trying in vain to keep her long hair from whipping her repeatedly in the face, but her attempts were to no avail. She doubted that even if she were able to keep the hair out of her mouth that Mr. Weasley would have been able to hear her respond.

When he had first motioned at the car three hours ago, Angela, though disappointed that there was apparently going to be no magic involved in her trek to London, thought Mr. Weasley was going to drive them to the airport, perhaps to a private school plane or something along those lines. What she hadn't expected was for the car to, after a minor taxi down the street, pull up off the ground with a grinding of gears and lift upwards with its nose into the dark sky, sputtering as it went. Her mother had screamed like a banshee when the wheels had first left the asphalt, and it took Angela five whole minutes just to get her to finally calm down.

And now here they were, cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet in a Ford Anglia and heading to England.

Watching Mr. Weasley at the controls, it was obvious that he was just having the time of his life, though it wasn't the flying experience that was the exciting part to him, but apparently the fact that he was sitting behind the wheel of a car. He would keep checking the gauges and had his hands fastened to the wheel, mumbling in pleased tones under his breath "Hands at two and ten o'clock, hands at two and ten o'clock!". Unfortunately, he also thought it would add to the experience if he drove with the window down, which may have been fine if the group hadn't been six miles up in the air - how they were able to breathe in that thin atmosphere Angela had no idea, but the air seemed perfectly breathable other than the hyper-intensive gusts. In the rising morning the wind was bracing and extremely cold, and while Mr. Weasley had his voluminous green robes to keep him warm (which prompted Angela to wonder not only how his hat was staying on in this wind but how he was even wearing it in what should have been a rather cramped car space), Angela and her mother were stuck wearing ordinary jackets that did little against the unrelenting gale.

"Not much longer now!" Mr. Weasley bellowed through the wind, "Another five or ten minutes and we'll be in British airspace!"

"What??" yelled Angela back.

"I SAID, NOT MUCH LONGER-"

"No, no! I meant, we're almost in England??" Sheri and Angela arched forward from their seat in the back, peering over the front seat and Mr. Weasley's shoulder to get a better view out the front window, as well as to hear him better. "Didn't we just leave??"

Mr. Weasley turned slightly, still keeping his head arced enough to keep his eyes ahead, and looked at Angela and Sheri confusedly. "What do you mean?"

"We left Broken Arrow three hours ago, and we've been going about sixty-five the whole time!"

"Um..." Mr. Weasley looked as though he wasn't sure what Angela's point was. "I'm sorry, I know it's taking a little long, but the car can only go so fast," he said apologetically, "I only just put it back together, you see, and I don't think I've gotten all the kinks out of it.

"Besides, our meeting isn't for another hour," he added in an attempt to comfort any perceived impatience, "So we'll be there with plenty of time to spare."

Angela looked sideways out the window, keeping her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn't know why she hadn't noticed it before, but the sun was no longer just cresting the horizon and was now almost all the way up into the bright blue sky, shining down brilliantly on the white, puffy clouds below. The ground below was totally obscured by them, and Angela had no idea just where they were at this moment, though she still saw ground through the few tiny openings in the cloud-cover that appeared here and there.

Angela felt almost giddy with excitement at the prospect of this new world being opened up to her, a big smile creeping itself onto her mouth. Even packing up and leaving the house had been a magical experience: as they were on a tight schedule, Mr. Weasley offered to pack a trunk for her, and Angela happened to have one, medium-sized with a black body and brass-colored metal trim. Angela had looked at him uncomfortably and said she didn't want anyone poking through her things, but Mr. Weasley assured her this would be the quickest way and before she could say another word of protest he had raised his wand and uttered "Pack!". In a sudden flurry of wind, closet doors burst open and clothes fluttered and whizzed around her as though a flock of birds had poured into her bedroom, and as soon as it had begun the whizzing of cloth had stopped, sounding as though a vacuum had been plugged up. The next thing she knew, Angela saw her trunk had been packed all the way to the brim, clothes folded neatly and other niceties like sketch pads and books she had been reading recently placed smartly on top. Sheri had seen this magical spell in action and though she had watched in awe and shock when it had started, once it had been completed she instead looked at Angela with a bright gleam in her eye which Angela had tried to avoid as best as possible: if it was this easy to pack things using magic, this opened up a whole new world of labor she would be able to subject her daughter to...

Though she didn't have a trunk, Mr. Weasley's spell worked just as well using a suitcase and Sheri found two-weeks worth of travel clothes packed for her in mere seconds. Her gleam had become even more manic when he levitated the trunk and suitcase out the door and into his car's trunk, and Angela could see the wheels turning in her head: no more need to have herself or other people carry heavy items to the booth or to sales anymore, not when her own daughter would eventually be able to do all the heavy lifting herself with just a wave of a magic wand. Angela groaned at the thought that her mother was probably already scheduling her for magical-labor, before Angela even had a wand to wave.

"So I'll be with her until she actually goes to school?" asked Sheri as Mr. Weasley closed the trunk.

"Well," he said, grunting a little as he had forced the trunk closed, "most of the time you will, when she's not in meetings with the Ministry or engaged in any other official-type business. Don't worry though, I'll be with her when you're not."

"Mm," Sheri muttered in acknowledgement. "So, Mr. Weasley-Arthur-," she started, throwing him a smile, "are all your family members wizards?"

Angela, who had at the time been grabbing some traveling snacks from the fridge and was packing them into the backseat, twisted her head at her mother so sharply and in so much sudden alarm that she ended up twisting her neck. While to the untrained ear Sheri's question might have seemed like a totally innocent bit of idle chit-chat, Angela knew much, much better: this was the start of her mother's roundabout way of finding whether or not Mr. Weasley was single. Sheri always seemed to find men who were capable of doing manual labor for her to be potential suitors, or at least potential members of her "volunteer" (i.e. regularly utilized and often under-appreciated) workforce, and being able to load up a truck full of antiques and magic heavy pieces of furniture into a store would fit her bill more than she could have ever hoped.

Angela, eyes so wide that she could have been mistaken for an animal caught in oncoming headlights, threw as dirty a look as she could at her mother, shaking her head in a violent NO!-motion in the hope she'd make eye contact and possibly dissuade her from pursuing any of this further. It would have been a futile attempt in any case, Angela knew, for her mother never listened to her in matters like this, but this was too important to Angela and she wasn't going to have her mother screw it up by starting another husband-hunt just as everything was starting to go well. Fortunately, while Mr. Weasley hadn't picked up on her intentions, his forthcoming answers to her quickly ended Sheri's dream of a spouse that could solve her work issues with a wand.

"Oh, yes," he said, "We're all purebloods, not that that really matters, mind you, but still it's quite an extensive history. My boys - I have six of them, you see - are all Hogwarts students." He swelled with pride as he said it. "Well, not all the boys, mind you. My youngest Ron will be starting this year, Molly and I are quite excited about it."

"Molly?" asked Sheri apprehensively.

"My wife, lovely lady she is, if a bit on the, er, dominating side." Mr. Weasley scratched his chin with a quick though, and then tacked on for safety, "You may not want to mention that last bit to her in case you ever meet..."

"Your wife. Oh," said Sheri, immediately sounding disappointed while simultaneously losing all interest in him, beyond his obvious use to her for Angela's magical education. Angela took in a deep sigh of relief that this was at least the end of it, though she couldn't suppress her internal disgust that her mother remained true to form even under such unusual circumstances.

"Everyone settled and ready?" he asked, thankfully oblivious to the entire incident, as the group gathered into the car and strapped on seatbelts.

"Then we're off!"

And now, here they were, soaring through what was now the noon sky over rolling white clouds, apparently only minutes from setting down in London.

"Ah, there we are!" shouted Mr. Weasley, once again being blasted full force by the jet-stream through his open window. He pointed out the front of the window and Angela extended herself as far forward as her seatbelt would allow. The sight was indeed a spectacular one to behold: the clouds ahead were giving way and before them, thousands of feet below, was a sprawling metropolis extending as far out into the horizon as she could see, a long and winding river slicing the city in two. Sheri, also viewing the scene with awe, had pulled out a small disposable camera from her travel-bag and was taking aerial snapshots of the scene below. Slowly, the car began to lurch forward and downward, and the two looked quickly at Mr. Weasley to make sure this was intentional. His expression hadn't changed, so apparently this was to be their descent towards the city.

"Won't people wonder what a flying car is doing over London??" Angela shouted through the wind.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that!" Mr. Weasley shouted in return, "I've made a couple of modifications to this little beauty!" He patted the steering wheel affectionately as he made the last comment.

Angela sat back down in her seat, still craning her neck to see the view coming closer and closer towards them. The buildings were slowly becoming more and more discernable, the cars could now be seen scurrying along their roads like worker ants on a mission, and any doubts she had of where they were vanished when she could finally make out Big Ben and the Parliament Building sitting on the edge of the Thames.

The entire descent into the city was accompanied by Sheri's camera clicking away rapidly, which shortly thereafter ended when she ran out of film, and the wind from the open window subsided to a strong breeze as the car slowed down and entered the city's regular airspace. The car slowly coasted downwards until the sounds of traffic were all around them and they were now only about a hundred feet off the ground. Apparently the modifications on the car Mr. Weasley had mentioned were indeed working, for none of the pedestrians seemed even mildly concerned that a blue, antique car was sputtering over them at low altitude.

Now down to about thirty miles an hour and floating uncomfortably close to the hoards of people going about their daily routine, the car glided down past many old and impressive office buildings, around a number of corners and slowly away from the more imposing offices, deeper and deeper into the city of London, and finally settled to a complete stop in a small, dingy alleyway between several old and dilapidated office buildings, its shocks squeaking slightly as the car rested onto the ground.

It certainly wasn't what Angela had been expecting: the walls of the alleyway were smattered with graffiti and there was a huge trash bin overflowing with garbage at the very end. People still milled back and forth past the end of the alley, though none of them glanced even once down its length. "Why would they?" thought Angela, "Dark, scary alley like this? It's a dump." The occasional rat scurried along behind the garbage can, and against the graffiti-covered wall and looking somewhat out of place in this deserted alley was a run-down old phone booth that looked as though it had been bumped by the garbage truck once or twice. Still, despite the god-awful surroundings the sight of the phone booth was still mildly interesting, as Angela had never seen a red British phone booth up close, even if it was missing a few panes of glass here and there; a little touching up and it might even sell if her mother ever put it in an antique booth (which she was certain her mother was thinking at the exact same time).

"Alright, everyone out," Mr. Weasley said brightly, hopping out of the car as he did so to stretch his legs. Angela and Sheri undid their seatbelts and followed suit, though once they opened the car doors and set foot on the wet pavement they were both in for a surprise when they turned to look at the car. There was nothing there, except for the floating holes which they stepped out of that were in the shape of the doors. Angela quickly resisted the natural inkling to close the door behind her, for she wasn't sure if she'd be able to find the handle if she wanted to open it up again.

"It's invisible!" said Sheri in awe.

"Yes, er, about that..." Mr. Weasley began, "We may want to keep this to ourselves, hmm? Don't need anyone asking too many questions, I'd think?" He threw a nervous grin at the two while patting the top of the transparent automobile.

Angela wasn't sure what to make of it, but before she really had a chance to Mr. Weasley redirected the subject back to business, walking around where the car should have been and over to the phone booth, sliding open its door.

"In we go," he said with a wave, directing them to step inside.

"But what about our luggage?" said Sheri, not wanting to part with any of her belongings.

"Oh, it's quite safe here," Mr. Weasley responded reassuringly. "The car can keep an eye on them while we're in. Now c'mon, chop-chop, don't want to be late, the meeting will be starting soon." Sheri and Angela looked at one another, and though stepping into a cramped phone booth was quite a strange idea, Mr. Weasley seemed to know what he was doing all this time, so why would he stop now? The two stepped into the booth next to the phone dialer, which was twisted to the side as though someone had tried to yank it from its moorings, and were followed by Mr. Weasley who shut the door behind them. It was an extremely tight fit for the threesome, and Mr. Weasley had to put in some effort to reach the phone receiver, which he strained to place next to his ear.

"Missus Cross, would you be a dear and dial for me? I can't seem to meet the dial."

Sheri twisted slightly and tried not to get flattened against the glass, and when she was ready Mr. Weasley instructed her to dial 62442. The numbers whirred with tiny clicks as she dialed, and when she had completed the sequence, the dial finishing with a tight click, a woman's voice, soothing and collected, suddenly filling the cramped compartment.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," the voice said in a soft British accent. "Please state your name and business."

"Arthur Weasley with Angela Cross and her mother Sheri Cross. We have an appointment with the International Headmasters Commission regarding academic placement."

"Thank you," replied the mysterious voice. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

A click and a rattle suddenly came from the phone, and Angela saw two small and silver objects slide into the phone's change dispenser. Picking them up, she saw they were small, square-shaped silvery badges, one with Angela Cross, Academic Hearing on it and the other with Sheri Cross, Mother in Attendance. She handed Sheri's badge to her and both pinned them to their clothes.

The female voice resounded softly through the booth again. "Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and submit your wands for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the atrium." The floor of the telephone box then shuddered and began to sink into the ground. The street slid up past them all and the booth became completely dark, the grinding sound of the booth's descent resounding in the utter blackness. The trip downwards took a minute before light began to pour in around the group's feet, sliding upwards as they apparently began to approach their destination. At first the light was too bright and Angela had to cover her eyes, but slowly the overwhelming nature of the light subsided and with a wide-eyed gaze of awe she finally saw what they had traveled all this way to visit.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," said the woman's voice, just as the phone booth's door sprang open.

It was an amazing sight as Angela, her mother and Mr. Weasley stepped out and onto the polished, dark wood floor, a grandiose hallway stretching out forever before them all. There were hundreds of people walking (and occasionally running) to and fro, all dressed in outlandish robes, capes, and other costumes, with papers, briefcases, and stacks of parchment in hand or even floating behind them; Angela assumed these people, like Mr. Weasley, were witches and wizards. Angela looked at him quickly and then at herself: she had put on some blue jeans and a navy t-shirt shirt with the Atari logo on it before the journey, an outfit she had thought looked quite cute, but now Mr. Weasley's flowing green robes looked more at place here than she did, and she began to feel a little silly at her outfit. She distracted herself from her attire promptly and continued to survey the Ministry in amazement. The ceiling was peacock-blue, inlaid with continuously moving and changing symbols of gold, like a magical display screen at a baseball game. Dark wood like that of the floor, shiny almost to the point of reflection, paneled the walls unendingly, and gigantic, gilded fireplaces were embedded in walls all the way down the hall. Angela and her mother jumped back in surprise as ever-so-often one of the fireplaces would throw out a loud whoosh sound and a witch or wizard would step right out of the fire as though they had just stepped off a bus. At other fireplaces, lines of people had formed, each one inexplicably stepping into various fires themselves and bursting into a puff of smoke with the same whoosh sound.

"Mr. Weasley," asked Angela, not taking her eyes off the many incredible sights, "what are those people doing?"

Mr. Weasley, who was looking at the ceiling as though he was waiting for some information to show itself, looked at the fireplaces and smiled at Angela. "Ah, you've never seen any use the floo before, that's right."

"Floo?"

"Well," said Mr. Weasley, "it's probably one of the most popular ways to travel, other than on broom. You just toss a little powder into the fire, state clearly where you want to go, and step in. Poof! Just like that." Angela held her tongue at the mention of broom-travel, sure that that would be explained to her eventually, just like everything else in this unbelievable place. "We, er, would have used the floo to get here," he added in quietly as he could, "but a nice drive and some fresh air is so much more pleasant, don't you think?"

This reminded Angela that her hair was probably an utter disaster at this moment after the drive, and she quickly ran her hands through it as best she could to get out the many tangles and make sure it was straight. In the meantime, Sheri rummaged around in her pockets quickly, desperate to find another disposable camera, but was disheartened when she discovered the only one she had was the one she had used up during the landing into London.

Mr. Weasley led them down the hall, and halfway along their trip was a massive golden fountain lined with white marble. Within the encirclement were five gold statues: the smaller two were unusual, humanoid creatures with big ears, the taller of the two wearing robes and a hat. Next tallest was a centaur, beautifully sculpted and carrying a bow and quiver of arrows, followed by a beautiful young woman in robes holding a wand aloft, and finally towering above them all was a wizard with a beard, pointy hat, robes and wand raised high into the sky. Water shot from various points on the statue, from the wands of the two humans and the point of the centaur's bow, and from the taller creature's hat and the smallest creature's ears. From the way everyone looked adoringly at the humans, Angela assumed the statues were memorials to the wizard and witch or something equally ostentatious. As they passed the fountain, Angela could see all sorts of coins sitting in the bottom of the pool, gold and silver and bronze glinting back up at her. Reaching into her pocket quickly before they had gone too far past it, Angela grabbed a penny and flipped it into the water for good luck. She caught a glimpse of the plaque on the front of the pool as she began to turn back towards her group:

All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brethren will be given to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

The thought of an entire hospital devoted to treating magical sicknesses and injuries made all sorts of strange images come to Angela's mind; just what kind of injuries did magical folks sustain in their daily lives? The sudden fact that she had only thrown a penny into the pond though had given her a small twinge of guilt in her stomach, if the proceeds were indeed supposed to go to injured people.

At the end of the hall were a set of golden gates through which most of the wizards and witches were heading, all looking quite busy and distracted, which pleased Angela just a little bit; despite the fact that they lived in a world filled with magic and wonders that Angela had never seen before, they still went to work like anyone else. It added just enough mundane into the mix for her to feel a little less like an outsider.

"Over here, Angela," called Mr. Weasley, making sure she didn't let herself get lost in the vast crowds that were surging all throughout the complex. Angela ran over to him and found herself next to desk with a sign hanging above it labeled SECURITY. Sitting behind the desk was an overweight, middle-aged man in peacock-blue robes, a poorly shaven beard and a balding scalp. He was busy reading a newspaper that, very much like the one she had seen the couple in the outdated garb reading the day before, had pictures on the pages that moved, and was so oblivious to the fact that anyone was there that Mr. Weasley had to clear his throat twice (louder the second time) to get his attention.

Giving Mr. Weasley a glance that barely lasted one second, the man went back to his paper without moving an inch and responded. "Business here?" he asked in a manner that made Angela think he really didn't care regardless of answer.

"I am escorting a visitor," he said, gesturing to Angela. Angela tried to smile at the guard, but as the guard never bothered to look at her it was a wasted effort. "And I have another visitor that will need access to the guest lounge," he added, gesturing to Sheri. Sheri looked at Mr. Weasley in confusion at this.

The guard finally looked up, irritated that his reading had been cut short, and ran his eyes over Angela and her mother. Then with an aggravated and efforted grunt he pulled himself to his feet and stepped around the desk, carrying what looked like a golden radio antenna from a car, and instructed the two to stand straight and hold out their arms. The guard ran the antenna up and down and around them, reminding Angela of an airport security check, and it appeared he had found nothing out of the ordinary upon either of them. Suddenly though, as he ran the antenna past Angela's head, he stopped abruptly and his eyes widened alertly. Angela, still standing stationary, glanced at the antenna, which was beginning to vibrate wildly. Electrical sparkles started to pop from the tip and wind their way down the length of the antenna, and as the guard slowly moved it closer and closer to her temple the sparkles spun faster and faster down its length. The guard, who had before appeared almost bored to the point of catatonia, was now beginning to tremble a little and backed off from Angela slightly, his antenna still moving towards the center of her forehead. As it reached the exact center point, the sparkles poured out of the tip so fast and brightly that they looked more like a continuous stream of electrical light than anything else, and then with a wild POP, the sparkles stopped and the tip of the antenna blasted apart in four separate directions, as though it had just been struck down the middle by an arrow. The sudden explosion caused many of the passers-by to stop their trek and look in Angela's direction, and the guard in utter shock dropped what remained of the antenna and wildly pulled a wand of his own from out of his shirt sleeve, pointing it at Angela in an air of total panic. Angela's eyes opened wide as though someone had just pointed a loaded gun at her and felt her heart skip a beat.

"M-Ma'am!" he said, trying to steady his voice and succeeding with neither his voice nor his wand. "You are to s-stay right where you are! D-Do not open your m-mouth to cast a spell or I will be forced to f-fire!"

Angela had no idea what was going on, nor did Sheri who was caught just as unawares as her daughter, and there was a brief moment of panic within them both before Mr. Weasley jumped between the guard and Angela, waving his arms wildly in an attempt to get the guard to step down.

"Morris!" he shouted, trying to calm the man down, "It's alright, it's alright! She's got authorization!"

The guard, not putting his wand down even though Mr. Weasley would have ended up being the target had he fired, looked up at him with a desperate look in his eyes in the hopes this could be confirmed. Slowly and carefully, making sure to keep separating Angela from the guard, Mr. Weasley pulled a scroll from his robes, a crisp white paper rolled up within a glass tube sealed with gold on both ends, and handed it to the guard. The guard, keeping his distance from Angela but slowly lowering his wand and taking the glass tube, removed the scroll carefully, looking at Mr. Weasley with an unsure frown on his face.

As he read the scroll, Angela kept staring at the two, wide-eyed and arms still out, not wanting to budge an inch lest she get turned into a frog or a rutabaga or something. Mr. Weasley, looking back over his shoulder, quickly noticed Angela and motioned to her that she could relax with an embarrassed smile on his face. "Sorry, we thought something like this might happen but didn't want to bring attention to it if possible," he said apologetically to the guard, who had apparently just finished the scroll and sighed with a massive heave of relief.

"Yeah, well," the guard responded, slumping against the desk and trying to catch his breath and stop himself from shaking, "looks like you failed miserably." He looked around Mr. Weasley and gave Angela a quick stare, though only a quick one as though he wanted to have as little eye contact with her as possible. "Glad she's your responsibility, Weasley, just get your business with her over with and take her out of here as soon as you can." His tone was far from pleasant and sounded downright desperate, and while Angela sighed in relief as well that the situation had been diffused, she wondered what exactly had just transpired and why the guard was so scared of her. Perhaps the wizarding community was deathly afraid of 'Muggle-borns'? It would fit with the post-script on the letter the hawk had initially delivered to her, after all.

As the guard moved to shoo away the crowd that had stopped to see the temporary chaos, Mr. Weasley turned and nudged Angela and Sheri away from the table as quickly as possible.

"What was that all about?" said Sheri, looking back and sounded utterly shocked.

"That will be explained soon enough," Mr. Weasley said, trying to maneuver the two towards a glass door with gold hinges on the opposite side of the room from the guard table. "My apologies for not warning you that might happen earlier," he said as they got to the door, which had the words GUEST LOUNGE carved ornately into the glass, "Morris doesn't see a lot of action here so he's not quite used to having to deal with anything remotely threatening."

"I'm threatening to him?" asked Angela as Mr. Weasley opened the door.

Mr. Weasley, propping the door open with his leg, bent down patted Angela on the shoulder comfortingly. "Trust me, all will be explained in a few minutes, my dear," he said again with a calming smile. Angela, who was still a little shaken from what had just taken place, smiled back and felt reassured by Mr. Weasley's kindness.

Standing back up, he turned to Sheri, still smiling. "Your daughter and I must head to the meeting, madam, but you can remain here in the guest lounge. It is very comfortable, I sometimes have my lunch down here." Sheri and Angela looked into the room and were awestruck by the lavishness within. A huge antechamber with multiple stories of floors stretched before them, shelves upon shelves with books lining every wall. On the ground floor was a thick, red carpet, and upon the carpet were reading tables and thick, voluminous chairs that a regular-sized person could sleep in if they wanted. There were men and ladies wearing robes and more wizard-like clothing (and even a few dressed in regular Muggle-clothes, who looked as awed Angela and Sheri felt), sitting and relaxing though all looking a little impatient as though they were waiting for something or someone, and occasionally Angela would see a small creature, like the smallest one in the fountain from earlier, run by with a tray of food or drink in hand to serve the waiting people. Sheri stepped in, still eyeing everything around her, when she regained a moment of her senses and turned back to Mr. Weasley.

"Wait, aren't I going with you?" she asked, looking at Angela.

"No need to worry, ma'am," Mr. Weasley responded, squeezing Angela's shoulder comfortingly, "we shouldn't be too long. Just relax and rest up while we're gone. The magazines may be a little out of date, I'm afraid, but otherwise it's a fine facility."

"No, I don't think I will," she said as though she had just casually made up her mind about something. "No, I'm going to go with you."

"Ma'am," Mr. Weasley said, obviously becoming worn thin by Sheri's eccentricities but still amazingly retaining his composure, "I'm afraid no one is allowed at this meeting but officials and your daughter. She'll be in my care, it'll be alright."

Sheri began to step out of the room and back into the hall. "I think it'd be better if I went with you, though-"

"Mom!" Angela said, louder than she had wanted. Sheri stopped and looked at Angela dubiously. "You have to stay here," Angela said, not intimidated by her mother's gaze. "This is just for me. Stay in the lounge, okay?"

Sheri just looked at Angela for a moment, her mouth agape, and then with a loud and obviously agitated hmph and a hurt glance at both Angela and Mr. Weasley, stepped back and into the lounge, muttering how she just wanted to help and Angela didn't have to be so rude. Angela knew better than to tempt fate by having her come along, though: whenever Sheri accompanied her on important things such as a doctor visit, her constant gasps and wide-eyed expressions of shock at every occurrence, no matter how minor or insignificant, would leave Angela utterly paranoid and more nervous than the situation would have demanded.

Mr. Weasley pulled his foot back and the door glided shut, Sheri looking at Angela for a moment through the glass before turning to see what the guest lounge had to offer. Though she was used to practically raising herself most times, Angela suddenly wished very much that her mother was allowed to be with her, a wave of fear running quickly through her; she really had no idea what was going on or what was about to happen, and though she tried to resist it she felt extremely scared. Mr. Weasley took her hand in his, apparently understanding what she was probably feeling, and led her past the guard (who buried his face even farther into the newspaper when she approached) and towards the golden gates, where a smaller hall lied beyond. In this hallway were over a dozen small elevator shafts, each with wrought golden grills standing before them, and dozens of Ministry workers were moving to-and-fro in and out of them. Angela also caught a glimpse of paper airplanes sometimes buzzing back and forth between elevators as well, and even the occasional origami pegasus or swan fluttering its wings and moving here and there, which helped push away her apprehension and replace it again with wonder.

"What are those?" she asked Mr. Weasley.

"Ah, those are memos to different offices. A lot less messy than using owls, I must admit." Mr. Weasley shuddered, as though he had experienced a bad memory, and he rubbed his face in reflex at the thought. Imagining owls flying around a building carrying letters, Angela could imagine just how messy it could occasionally get. Besides, she thought with a smile, the origami was much prettier.

The two made their way to one of the lifts in the back of the room and joined a crowd funneling into it when the grill moved back. Angela was quite pleased that this lift was more spacious than the one the telephone booth used, though it was still a little limited in space due to the number of people that stepped in.

"Why 'ello, Arthur," said a plump, middle-aged witch with what appeared to be a perpetual scowl. Mr. Weasley turned and suddenly gulped, politely tipping his hat to the woman as quickly as he could.

"Ah, Bertha, nice to see you" he replied, though it seemed strained. Mr. Weasley was apparently not hoping to bump into this person, who turned and looked at Angela. Not wanting to be rude, Angela smiled back, which resulted in a hand suddenly pinching her cheek.

"Oh my, little Ginny is growin' up fast, she is!" she said with a smile. Angela rubbed her cheek quickly as Bertha removed her hand. Meanwhile, the grill had shut and the elevator began to climb, the sound of chains rattling and the shudder of movement filling the car.

"Er, this isn't Ginny," he corrected her. "You've met Ginny before, she's younger."

"Not Ginny? Hm. Ron, then?"

A moment of stunned silence, then a response. "Ron's my boy, Bertha."

"Ah, that's right... When did you an' the missus have another one, then?"

Mr. Weasley sighed but tried to maintain his composure. "She isn't one of mine, she's here with me on Ministry business."

"Ah, I see," Bertha responded, though with a sound of mild distrust in her voice and eyeing Angela now with suspicion, "Ministry business. Don' worry, luv," she said with a cautious wink, "I won' tell anyone, my lips are sealed."

"What?" Mr. Weasley asked, utterly confused. A couple of the others in the elevator car, while trying to be nonchalant, were obviously trying to listen in on what may have proven to be a juicy bit of gossip. Despite her assurances of secrecy, Bertha wasn't making any effort to be quiet.

"I mean, it ain't like Harold Fransbottom down in Transportation," she tacked on. "Man practically begged me to share 'is lil secret wit' th' world, wanted to get it off 'is chest, I'm sure. But you, I'm sure you want this kept private."

The elevator stopped, and the same woman's voice from the telephone booth sounded within the car. "Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office," the voice announced.

"Oop, that's my stop, Arthur," she said, trying to push her way through the crowd as the grill opened, "I'll see you around. It was nice seeing you again, Ginny." She waved as she made her way out of the car and down the untidy hallway, and as soon as she was gone from sight Mr. Weasley quickly let out the same sigh of relief as the guard had earlier downstairs.

"Bertha Jorkins," he muttered, bracing himself against the back of the elevator car. "Oh please don't make me have to explain anything absurd to Molly again..."

The doors closed and with a noisy shudder the lift began to rise again. Occasionally Angela would get looks from the back from the people who had heard Bertha talking, who would then look at her and then at Mr. Weasley and back. Angela had to admit there was a minor resemblance between the two of them, and hoped people weren't going to start getting the wrong idea.

After a minute the elevator came to a clattering halt and the woman's voice piped through again: "Level six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Center."

The doors opened once more, and a few wizards stepped off, replaced by an origami flower that flew in, spinning like a tiny UFO and hovering above one of the witch's heads. Angela was entranced by the sight, it was so pretty, and even Mr. Weasley looked a little impressed.

"That's probably the work of Gilbert Whimple," said Mr. Weasley. "He works with the Committee on Experimental Charms. He loves to send Interdepartmental notes in paper-sculpture form. Only problem is unraveling them to see what he's written, no one wants to take them apart because they're so stylish." Angela couldn't help but laugh at that.

The doors clanged shut and once again the lift shuddered and clambered its way upward. While Angela was sure they Ministry of Magic took care of its facilities, she couldn't wait for the ride to end so she could get off, for the ricketiness of it all was making her queasy.

She got her wish as they reached the next floor. "Level five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magic Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law, and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats," chimed the voice as the grate slid open.

"This is our stop," said Mr. Weasley as he guided Angela through the crowd and out the door. The two stepped out into a hallway that was lined with doors, with the odd window peering out onto the London skyline. Judging from the view, Angela didn't think they were this high up (or that it was raining when they got into town), but again just assumed this was all part of the magical British scene and accepted it as it was. Mr. Weasley, passing the windows and looking out, muttered to himself, "Rain? Hmm, guess Williams didn't get that raise he was hoping for."

The hallway was quite lavish, different shades of brown marble slabs lining the floors with large and ornate paintings placed where there weren't doors or windows. Passing one painting of a young boy in a blue robe sitting at a picnic, Angela got a start when the painting of the boy turned and looked at her, waving with one hand while being careful not to spill the cup of tea he was holding in the other. Angela waved back clumsily, and upon looking at the other paintings in the hall noticed that all of them were moving, just like the pictures in the newspapers were. She was suddenly itching to get her sketchbook and pencils and see what would happen if she tried to draw some cartoons in this place.

"Ah, International Magic Cooperation," Mr. Weasley sighed, admiring the hall as he walked ahead of her. "They always get all the funding they want. Good public relations to bring diplomats into such lavish accommodations." Angela could hear a twinge of bitterness in his voice as he spoke.

"You work here, Mr. Weasley?" she asked.

"Well, not in this department, dear," he answered, still looking fondly at the décor as they walked, "I work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office out in the Law Enforcement Department. Part of the reason I was sent to bring you here, my experience with y-

er, with Muggles."

If there was one thing Angela was sure she was figuring out about Mr. Weasley, it was that he was terrible at trying to misdirect his own verbal mistakes.

"Were you going to say 'Experience with you'?" she said, suddenly feeling impatient and not wanting to be left out of any loop.

"Just a couple more doors," he said in a desperate attempt to stall.

"Hey!" said Angela, now sure he was hiding something. "Just what is going on here?" She stopped where she was and looked at Mr. Weasley with a frown. While she liked Mr. Weasley and had been sure this meeting had something to do with her acceptance letters to magic-school, Angela knew something was up about this, about the way the guard treated her and how Mr. Weasley wasn't giving her the whole story on things. And he had yet to tell her specifically what to expect in this meeting, or what she was going to have to talk about; she felt completely unprepared and didn't want to make a bad impression or anything with whoever (or whatever) was waiting for her behind those doors. Mr. Weasley arrived at the door he had pointed out, then noticed she had stopped early and rushed back to her, seeing she was becoming upset.

"Angela, I'm sorry I haven't been entirely forthcoming here, but I'm just not the person to give you all the answers here. To be honest," he said as he bent down to her, looking a little embarrassed, "I don't know them all myself." He looked back at her with an assured smile. "But the man inside that room does, and he's going to give us all the answers, if you'll just come in with me."

Mr. Weasley looked at her intently, standing back up, and motioned for her to come with him. Angela, not really knowing what else she could do, followed him as he returned to the door. It was a shiny green door, almost like heavy plastic, and there was a plaque embedded within it saying COMMITTTEE OF INTERNATIONAL EDUCATIONAL STANDARDS. Mr. Weasley turned the brass knob on the door and ushered Angela in.

Immediately she saw over two dozen eyes gazing upon her very intently, some with wonder, some quizzical, and some with frowns. All were with great intensity.

The room she stepped into was a huge cylindrical-shaped place about the length of a symphony hall, no flat walls anywhere except for the floor and a twenty-foot ceiling. Like the hallway, it was quite lavishly decorated: the floor was covered in a soft green carpet the color of freshly cut grass, and the walls were all lined with dark wood paneling like in the main hallway of the Ministry, paintings of identical sizes spaced evenly all the way around the walls. In the very back was a display case with a variety of trophies and framed documents within it, and above that was a large, ornate plaque that had the same design as the shield from the wax seal on the Hogwarts acceptance letter; here in person she could see more of the details on the shield, which had a multicolored design of a badger, eagle, lion and snake surrounding a large H. There was a round, marble pedestal at the end of the room she had entered from. Funny enough, the room was very well lit even though the only apparent light source was the chandelier which was painted onto the very center of the flat ceiling.

The biggest attention-getter of the room, however, were the many chairs arranged in a circular pattern all the way around the room, all turned towards her, and in those chairs were men and women of all types of ethnicities and cultures from across the world. There were women in kimonos and Chinese dresses, there were men in dashikis and parkas, plenty of people dressed in the same robes and pointy hats she had seen throughout the Ministry halls, blacks and whites, Asians and Latinos and Native Americans... She had just stepped into some multicultural magical melting pot.

As she came in, the room suddenly seemed hushed, like they had been talking intently until she intruded. But judging from the many gazes upon her, she felt less like she had intruded and more like she was being scrutinized and analyzed. Apparently whatever was planned here, she was the guest of honor. Were all prospective students for magic-school required to go through this process? she wondered.

"Ah, I see she has finally arrived, and right on time too, I might add." A small man, round and a little overweight, wearing a pinstriped suit and a purple bowler hat tucked neatly under his arm, walked up from the crowd, his arms wide with what looked like a strained smile on his face; without warning clasped Angela on the arms. He gave her a quick look-over of his own before turning to the crowd and saying, "See, my friends? Just as promised: Angela Cross, in the flesh."

Angela had no idea what that comment was supposed to mean and looked at Mr. Weasley desperately for an explanation. He just gave her a small thumbs up and mouthed, "It's going to be okay," to her before nodding respectfully to the portly man in the suit and walking around to the side, taking a vacant chair on the edge of the group and leaving Angela alone in the middle of the huge room with almost thirty eyes upon her and a strange man holding her much too close for her own tastes. She suddenly began to feel very nauseous and hoped things would make sense soon before she was forced to act on the nausea.

"How was the trip, my dear?" the portly man asked. "No bumps or problems along the way?"

Remembering Mr. Weasley had wanted her to be discreet about the flying car, Angela just responded with a nod, not sure if she could have said anything at that point anyway if she'd wanted to. She looked again at Mr. Weasley, who looked a little relieved that she hadn't gone into any details about the aerial drive to London. She then looked back the man in the suit and wondered just what he had in store for her.

"Well," he said, releasing Angela and clapping his hands together, "let's get this started then, shall we?"

The man pulled a wand from his pinstriped coat and waved it in a twirling motion at the pedestal, where three comfortable-looking chairs suddenly shimmered into being out of nowhere, followed by a finely-lacquered wooden table that formed in front of them, and finalized by a pitcher of water and three glass cups upon the table. Angela suddenly found herself very thirsty and was hoping one of the chairs and cups was for her. When the portly man pulled out a seat for her, which was actually high enough so that she could see over the table properly, she wasted no time in taking it. The portly man took a seat and pulled a glass to himself, filling it with water; Angela immediately followed suit, finishing her whole cup in one gulp and choking slightly from drinking it too fast. The men and women around her just watched the scene with more interest than she was comfortable with, and her mouth was suddenly feeling very dry again.

The man in the suit, having taken a sip, replaced his glass and gave a nod to a woman on his left at the other edge of the crowd. The woman, a bony lady with seashell glasses, nodded back and took out a piece of parchment from the bag at her side along with a quill with a green feather on its end.

"Greetings to all our esteemed headmasters and headmistresses, as well as to the international ministers that could join us in attendance," the man said. As he spoke, the quill the woman had pulled out began to scribble on the parchment on its own, floating in the air as the woman just looked on intently. "Now, we all know why we're here, but we shall restate the facts of the matter so they may be read into record, just so no misunderstanding will take place." He threw a few members of the audience a look of caution, obviously not trusting them. The looks that were returned to him reflected the same mindset towards him.

The man made a minor cough and began. "I, Minister Cornelius Oswald Fudge, head of the British Ministry of Magic at this date of August 18, 1991, have been requested to open this meeting to determine the jurisdiction for the education of Angela Cross, the first Twink to exist in five centuries, as well as the sole person to read from the Book of Black."

At the mention of this last sentence, there were a few uncomfortable shifts around the room and a number of nervous glances back at Angela, who sank a little in her chair to avoid them as best she could. Minister Fudge continued despite the interruption: "As we all know, Miss Cross here is in possession of some very potent and undeniably dangerous magic, and many of us-" He shot a gaze to a few people in the audience again, focusing specifically on a tall and thin man with a goatee and a weak chin; the man nodded and smiled politely at Fudge, though his smile did not reach his eyes, which were cold and plotting. Fudge continued on without missing a beat, "-feel it would be in her best interests, as well as that of the world in general, if she were to be tutored under their own personal care." Again, there were many shifts in the chairs.

Angela, though listening intently, wasn't sure she was hearing anything properly at this moment. She had no magic items or spells that she knew of, she'd never even seen magic in effect until earlier that very day. She was beginning to grow more and more convinced that these people had the wrong Angela Cross, but kept her mouth shut for the time being to at least satisfy her curiosity and hear more.

"However, we at the British Ministry feel it would be in everyone's best interests if she were to study at Hogwarts-"

The sudden grumbles and shiftings were enough to derail Fudge's track of discussion, and he looked around at the men and women in the audience with a frown, staying silent until they themselves regained their composure and quieted down.

"Right, as I was saying: she would in our opinion be best suited for education at Hogwarts, which is headed by the prestigious and undeniably brilliant Albus Dumbledore." Fudge raised his hand and motioned to a man in one of the center chairs, an extremely tall and extremely old wizard in purple robes covered with silver stars, wearing a pair of half-moon glasses upon his crooked nose which sat above an unbelievably long white moustache and beard. Unlike the earlier man, this one's smile didn't just reach his eyes but seemed to extend into his entire being. He nodded and waved back in friendly acknowledgement, and for a moment threw that heart-warming smile to Angela. She couldn't help but smile back and could tell she liked him immediately.

"This is absurd," interjected an Arab man in what appeared to be a solid gold robe with a pearl-colored turban upon his head.

"Mahmud, please," said Fudge, putting his hands up non-threateningly before himself, "we agreed to be civil in this matter."

"I'm not interested in civility, Cornelius," replied the man curtly, "I doubt there are many of us here that are. Not when you are claiming you have jurisdiction in a case where we can all see with great clarity that you indeed have none." His sentence was followed by many grunts and murmurs of agreement, and the man called Mahmud seemed quite pleased that he was being acknowledged in this manner.

"The British Ministry was the first on the scene," Fudge replied intensely, "and we were also the ones who had been tracking Delgado in the first place, and facilitated his capture. In fact, as I recall, many of you were telling Minister Bagnold and myself that the Book of Black was just something Delgado made up to threaten us with."

"What happened before is not important," Mahmud retorted. "What matters is the here and now. That girl has the potential to not only be the most powerful witch on the planet but also the most dangerous weapon this universe has ever seen. You'll forgive me if I don't think the British Ministry or Hogwarts is where I'd like to see her raised." The man looked at Angela and threw what he thought was a charming, crooked smile in her direction, which only caused her immediate dislike of the man to increase. "She would be much better off to attend The Royal Academy of Kandahar ibn Kazra ibn Shen'Glox and receive tutelage under our world-renowned staff of trainers in the mystic arts."

The thin man with the goatee from before stood up from his chair, glaring at both the Arab and the Briton. "My dear headmaster, we all know your students are nothing more than soldiers for the Flame Vizier," he sneered at Mahmud before turning to those assembled and smiling his insincere, yellow-toothed smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, we all know just what kind of magic the Book of Black contained: Dark Spells, magic that serves the forces of shadow. While many of you may believe you can deal with this kind of magic, are there any of those amongst you to say that I am not the most qualified in this matter, that myself and the staff at Durmstrang are not the most educated of us all in the ways of the Dark Arts?" Despite the obvious desires of those present to argue this assumption, not a one of them spoke up to contest it. It was apparent that this man knew what he was talking about. "I see you agree," he said in acknowledgement of their begrudging concurrence. "And so the choice is quite obvious, that she should be allowed to accompany me to Durmstrang and be trained under our care."

"You mean He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's care, don'chu, Igor?" interjected a Jamaican man leaning back in his chair without actually looking at anything but his propped-up feet. The man from Durmstrang turned to face the Jamaican and his false smile faltered, revealing the ugliness of his features entirely to Angela.

"We've cleared all of that mess up, Luttrell," he responded through grit teeth. "The Ministry conceded I was under the control of the Imperius Curse, I have nothing to feel guilty for."

"Say watchu like, mon," the Jamaican responded, "I just say it as I sees it." He looked up at Angela and she could see that his eyes were completely white, which immediately disturbed her greatly and compelled her to look away. "An' how I sees it is that I'd ratha she go ta anyone else in dis room than in yo' hands, Karkaroff."

The argument between the delegates began to intensify, and Angela immediately wanted out of the room. She didn't know what was so important about herself, but she knew the last thing she wanted was to be bartered off like a side of beef at market. She began to look back desperately at the exit and wondered if she'd be able to make a break for it to the elevator before the others could catch up to her.

"Zis' eez ridiculous, we have ze finest instructors on ze European continent at Beauxbatons, she belongs wiz us!"

"You overgrown French frog, she belongs back in her own country! Salem Witches Institute is where she's going to go. Hell, this whole incident took place in our jurisdiction in the first place anyway!"

"You Americans have enough power at your own disposal, the Norwegian Rune School of the Shamanic Arts will make sure she's trained properly, not filled to her ears with your propaganda!"

"Gentlemen, ladies, please! Take your seats, we won't work anything out if we fight like this!"

Angela could feel her heart pounding and her stomach knotting tighter and tighter as people were standing up and chairs were falling over, voices carrying higher and higher. A wand was brandished, then another, and soon everyone was pulling out wands left and right. In the chaos, Angela began to slide out of her chair, wondering just how she was going to get away from these people before one of them just decided to scoop her up with a spell and take her against her will. Maybe if she could get to her mother fast enough, if they could figure out how to get outside and maybe jump in the invisible car, they wouldn't be found and might even be able to escape the country without being found out...

And then, all of a sudden, it stopped.

Halfway out of her chair, Angela turned around and saw the crowd, all standing still, looks of abject terror in their eyes as they focused on one place out of her range of vision. Turning around the other way so she could see over the table, she saw him, standing tall, wand in hand but not up or poised in a threatening manner. Dumbledore, the man with the beard and purple robes, the one that had smiled the only genuine smile she had seen all day besides Mr. Weasley's, was standing between her and the crowd. She could only see a little bit of his face from where she crouched, but what she saw was pure intensity. Not anger or sorrow or any other emotion she could discern, just unyielding force of will.

The room was completely silent for a minute, not even the sound of rustling clothes or shifting bodies. Everyone just set their gaze on Dumbledore, even Minister Fudge and the stenographer. In fact, the only ones in the crowd who weren't mesmerized into fear by his presence were herself and Mr. Weasley.

"She will attend Hogwarts," was all he said in what Angela thought was a quiet and kind voice that had the unmistakable air of finality, and then just like that he turned casually and headed for the door. On his way, he stopped by the table and looked at Angela with that same heart-warming smile. "I look forward to seeing you at the Welcoming Ceremony, my dear. Do make sure you have all your supplies ready," he added with a wink and a twinkle in his eye, and then he returned towards the door and stepped out.

The door shut quietly, and once again there was silence, until the crowd finally began to recompose themselves, trying their level best to act as though they were above the fear they had so clearly displayed just moments before. Wands were returned to their proper places and the crowd returned to their seats, still looking extremely ruffled despite their attempts to act otherwise. Angela also returned to her seat and grabbed a quick glass of water, though she couldn't repress the smile she felt upon her face when she thought of the air of majesty that Dumbledore had just shown her. If he was headmaster for Hogwarts, that was definitely where she wanted to go.

"Well," said Fudge, who was just as disheveled as the others in the audience, "I do think we could ask for no one finer than Professor Dumbledore to watch over this young lady. Is there anyone here who would contest this fact?"

There was only silence. Many of the faces Angela could see were clearly far from pleased, but none of them were willing to make so much as a peep in opposition. The Minister looked around and gave the crowd a moment to voice any dissatisfaction (even if it was strictly for appearance-sake, for it was obvious he knew none of them would stand up against Dumbledore), then when enough time seemed to have passed he continued. "Then it is decided, Angela Cross will remain in the care of the British Ministry of Magic and will attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the duration of her educational period." There was a powerful air of smugness with his final statement.

Fudge let the statement sink in for a moment and even looked at his stenographer, whose floating quill remained steady, ready to complete the log for the meeting, then comfortably pushed back his chair and stood up. "Then we're done here. Ladies, gentlemen," he said, bowing politely to the crowd, "it has been a pleasure seeing you all here in one place, we do it so rarely nowadays. Please feel free to head to the Ambassadorial Lounge down at the end of the hall, where our house elves are more than willing and able to take care of all your needs."

As he stood, he motioned for Mr. Weasley to come to him. "Arthur," he told him, bringing them both close enough to Angela so they could all hear him, "please take Miss Cross to Diagon Alley and secure her school supplies. Use the Ministry treasury and set up a stipend account with Gringotts for her." He turned and gave Angela another insincere smile for her day's total. "We wouldn't want to make your stay in Britain an unpleasant one, eh, my dear?" He winked in a way he thought was clever, before turning to head out the door. "Enjoy your stay at Hogwarts!" he yelled, loud enough for the rest of the delegation to hear as they rose from their seats, and stepped out. Angela avoided looking at the audience, sure that more than one dirty look was being thrown her way as though she had had something to do with the whole scenario and instead followed Minister Fudge's lead, heading out of the room promptly with Mr. Weasley close in tow.

Both were silent as they ventured back down the hallway, past the moving paintings and the windows (which for some reason now had snowfall drifting downwards outside) and into the elevator, which was empty except for a couple of hovering paper airplanes bearing the words MINISTRY OF MAGIC on their sides, fluttering around beneath the swinging lamp that kept the elevator lit as it descended.

Angela wasn't sure exactly how she should feel at this moment. There was definitely a certain level of misery running through her, as though the whole fantastic prospect of learning magic and attending school was just shot in the foot. It was supposed to be something fun and exciting and grand, and all she'd seen so far was that she was being thought of as a piece of livestock. The way all these people she didn't know kept saying they knew what they thought was best for her, when she could tell by their fake smiles and angry tones that all they were really interested in was themselves and their own goals for her, whatever those might have been. And that one had called her the most dangerous weapon this universe has ever seen... What had he meant by that?? Angela didn't even know any cheap card tricks, how could anyone see her as dangerous?

The elevator stopped in its descent and the doors slid open. The woman's voice echoed through the car again: "Level six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo-" But Angela didn't wait and jumped out of the car, suddenly feeling very sick, like she wanted to throw up.

"Are you alright, Angela?" Mr. Weasley asked as he quickly followed her out. She bent over and was suddenly very pale and sweaty, and he could see what was coming next. As carefully as he could, he helped lead her a few doors down the hall and into the women's lavatory, letting her trudge the rest of the way in as he stayed outside. Stumbling past a fat witch in yellow robes at the sink, Angela wasted no time in finding an open stall and fell over it, throwing up and feeling absolutely awful, more so than she had when her mother told her she wanted to move again last night.

It was about fifteen minutes before she finally stepped clumsily out of the bathroom, greeted by an anxious Mr. Weasley who immediately looked her over to make sure she was alright. Angela looked up at him, suddenly tired and, while not queasy anymore, definitely beat up inside. Mr. Weasley sighed and looked around, quickly spied an empty conference room nearby and walked inside it with Angela alongside him. He closed the door behind him and pulled a couple of large, wooden chairs away from the conference table, then directed Angela to sit down in one while he sat in the other and faced her.

"I'm really very sorry," he said sadly, "I didn't think it was going to be like that. Well..." he corrected himself with a weak smile, "I kind-of figured it was going to be like that, but I hoped Minister Fudge would have gotten them all calmed down beforehand. Unfortunately, it all turned into a bit of a mess right quickly, didn't it?"

Angela couldn't find it in herself to smile, even just to placate Mr. Weasley. He had told her all her questions would be answered, and instead all she had now was more questions. Despite not wanting to be, she was a little mad that she was being kept in the dark by him about things which had a direct bearing on her life, especially from people that wanted her to be part of this bold new world but not telling her anything about it. It was extremely frustrating, to say the least.

"Mr. Weasley, what's going on?" she asked sternly. "What were those people talking about? Why do they all want me to join their schools?" She didn't feel like asking about the 'dangerous' part just yet, that may have been too much for her to digest with all these other issues going on in her mind.

Mr. Weasley took in a deep breath and adjusted himself in the chair to be more comfortable, as though he expected to be there a while when she had asked these questions. "Well, my dear," he said, seemingly glad to be able to talk about this matter himself, "I suppose it would be in your best interests to hear the truth. I assume Professor Dumbledore would do so eventually when you arrive in Hogwarts anyway, he's a good person and unlike the rest of those windbags truly does care what happens to you." He pointed at her, to emphasize that he meant her as a person, and not whatever forces the others had been so eager to get their hands on from her.

"This all started years ago, well before any of our times, even before You-Know-Who." At Angela's confused expression, Mr. Weasley couldn't help but smile embarrassedly. "No, I don't suppose you would know who... Well, at any rate, long ago there was a wizard, a very powerful one named Price Delgado. Terrible wizard, obsessed with becoming a god and didn't mind one bit about who he stepped on in his quest. Over the course of his long life, he made pacts with certain beings, immeasurably powerful forces that live far beyond what we would call our reality, and in exchange for who knows what, he was gifted with spells that would make the world tremble.

"But there was a little clause in his agreement in which he couldn't learn the magic while in their realm, lest he use it on them - it was that powerful, you see. So he fashioned together a spellbook he called The Book of Black, which he could put all the magical knowledge he had gained into and take into our world to study later. Now, being the paranoid sort, as Dark Wizards do tend to be, he didn't want to risk coming to the world, only to be killed or otherwise knocked about before he could get a chance to use the spells, for there were plenty of other wizards out there both evil and good who would undoubtedly want to get their hands on his prize. So the book was enchanted so that all he had to do was merely glance at the spells and they would be burnt into his mind."

Angela grimaced as she suddenly remembered the book that had popped into her head yesterday, the encyclopedia with gold trim that haunted her thoughts on the walk back from the library. How did she know about this book when she was just hearing this story for the first time? And why was she now remembering this book in her own hands, like a dream, with the pages open? Not wanting to lose any part of the story, though, she shook her head and refocused herself on Mr. Weasley.

"Unfortunately for Delgado, his paranoia was well-founded as his enemies were ready for him the moment he stepped back into our world, and there was a terrible fight. In the struggle, the Book was accidentally, ah, well... transfigured into a cockroach..."

Angela raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if he had decided to throw a joke into the mix, but Mr. Weasley just shrugged with a funny grin. "It was, I'm not kidding. So anyway, before anyone could grab it, the Book had scurried away into the night, and despite finally vanquishing his enemies Delgado was unable to find the roach, which had disappeared into the mountains where his castle lied.

"You see, Delgado was too paranoid, for he not only enchanted the book to give him its contents instantly, but to keep others from finding it he had made it immune to magical searches, which to his dismay prevented him from finding it as well. Foolish wizard," Mr. Weasley said with a chuckle.

"So for centuries, Delgado traveled across the globe in search of his book. He was forced to utilize Muggle means of hunting it down: checking records, hunting in shops, using trackers and even bounty hunters. The magic that had turned it into a cockroach wouldn't have lasted more than a few months, so he knew the Book itself would be what he was searching for."

"Wasn't he worried someone would open it and get the magic from it?" Angela asked.

"Well, in that regard Delgado's paranoia worked in his favor. He had also enchanted the book so that it could never be opened without him being present. Otherwise it would just stick shut.

"Now, Delgado was powerful enough that he could have been a terrible threat, especially so many years ago before even Dumbledore was born, but he was so obsessed with the book - probably due to the price he had paid those forces to get it in the first place - that his life revolved around nothing other than finding it. During his hunts, the Ministry of Magic caught wind of what he was up to, and he had let himself go so much over time that his magic was longer in any condition to challenge us.

"Now, as Delgado was utilizing Muggle means of tracking down his book and since no one in the Ministry could find it using spells, I was called in for my experience with Muggle culture and customs." Again, Mr. Weasley beamed with pride, which Angela thought was a little silly considering how many things he seemed to be mistaken on about the non-magical world, but she couldn't hold back a smile at his enthusiasm. "It took a bit of doing - I read the complete tales of Sherlock Holmes four times but was no closer to being able to properly investigate the matter Muggle-wise, I'm afraid - but I figured that if we couldn't find the Book with magic that we could instead track Delgado himself with magic. He figured us out in the final months, and this slowed him down considerably since he was forced to use as little magic as possible to keep us off his trail, but in the end it paid off.

"It was a close call, mind you. You see, he found the Book," Mr. Weasley said, looking at Angela in a strangely nostalgic way. "After traversing the globe and changing hands dozens of times, it finally ended up in a small antique store in the United States. Had he been able to make it outside with the Book..." Mr. Weasley suddenly shuddered at the thought. He then looked back up at Angela and smiled, as though reminding himself he could be relieved. "But lucky for us he hadn't, hmm? Instead, someone else got to it first."

And with that he patted Angela on the shoulder. Then, slowly, like a trickle in her mind, Angela began to picture the scene in her head, as though she had been there herself. The details were scattered at first, like trying to remember a dream after you had been awake for a while. But unlike a dream where the details faded more and more as one thought about it, the missing gaps began to fill in, the trickle becoming a small stream.

"There was some guy," she said, squinting in thought, "Someone in black robes. He had ugly black hair, I think..."

She looked up at Mr. Weasley, who nodded at her to continue.

Angela scrunched up her eyes and brow and tried to think, but nothing more was coming. It was a very frustrating sensation, as she felt like she was about to understand on a deeper level exactly what was going on, but try as she might she just couldn't bring any more memories forward.

"They'll come back in time," Mr. Weasley said consolingly as he could see Angela's building frustration.

"I was the one that got the book," Angela said, her irritation rising as she realized what the big deal was about, yet had no personal memory of the events which were now shaping her life. Still, despite the aggravation at not being able to bring it to mind, the significance of the words hit her hard: as Mr. Weasley said, the book was rigged so that all one had to do was just look at the spells in it and they would be forever ingrained in the reader's mind instantly, meaning...

Angela suddenly found herself worrying where her fingers were touching or what angle her body was pointed at. If those spells were as lethal as Mr. Weasley said they were, what would set them off? A thought? A misdirected finger? If she was bumped hard enough would she explode like a grenade? Her breathing became rapid and heavy, though she tried to move her body as little as possible and forced herself to be completely stiff.

Mr. Weasley put both hands on her shoulders. "It's ok," he said, trying to get her to relax, "chin up. You're not going to pop, if that's what you're worried about." He smiled and Angela, after a moment's consideration, let out a deep breath and tried to loosen her body, though she was still finding herself unconsciously resisting to in some parts. "The spells are very deep inside of you, you don't have the knowledge or training to access them. At least not yet, that's what Hogwarts is for."

"The school? But why would you want me to ever be able to use them?"

Mr. Weasley straightened up in his chair and raised his eyebrows, though he continued to smile. "Oh, we don't want you to use them, no no no. But one day, one way or another you might very well gain access to them, maybe through an accident or maybe if you're pushed hard enough by someone or something. And that's what you need training for, to know how to identify what's going on in your own head and how magic works in general. Muggle-born families can't tell an Apparate from an Accio, pardon me for saying so, so it's simply imperative that we teach you so that you can control those spells should they ever surface."

Mr. Weasley became silent to let his words sink in. Angela thought about the situation for a moment before asking her next question. "Those people then, the ones in the room. Who were they? They also teach magic schools?"

"Some of them do," he replied, "Most of them, actually. There were a few non-headmasters, those ones were other Ministers from foreign Ministries of Magic."

"So this isn't the only Ministry of Magic?" Angela asked.

"No, there are others across the world. They are their country's respective magical governments, and I'm not at all surprised that they came along with the headmasters.

"They want you, Angela, because those spells in your head are powerful, and anyone who has real access to them will become quite a force to be reckoned with. That's why all those birds came to your door this morning with admissions letters: if those other headmasters were to take you under their wing, they would undoubtedly focus all your training and education into accessing what you gleaned from the Book of Black, just so they could have the knowledge for themselves." Mr. Weasley shrugged dismissively, "True, not all of them are power-hungry monsters, some just think they would do the best job of keeping you from ever using the spells, at least for evil means." He frowned at the next part. "But there are those who would like those spells because they are power-hungry monsters. Those are the people we need to be careful of, and those are the people Albus Dumbledore wants to keep you away from." Angela's mind went back to the thin man with the goatee and the smile that never reached his eyes.

"And Mr. Dumbledore doesn't want the spells from me?" she asked, fairly sure about the answer but wanting to make sure.

"Professor Dumbledore," Mr. Weasley corrected. "No, he is definitely not interested in taking anything for personal gain. He's the finest person I know next to my Molly and will only do what is best for you. And that's a promise," he added with a wink.

Angela smiled at the reassurance.

"Anything else on your mind that I can help you with before we go fetch your mum?" he asked her.

"Hmm..." Angela thought for a second, then remembered something.

"The fat man with the purple hat," she said.

Mr. Weasley chuckled at the gall of someone calling the head of the Ministry fat. "Minister Fudge?" he said with a small giggle.

"Yeah, he said I was something. Um, Tweak...? Tink...? Tinker...?"

"Ah, a Twink."

"Yeah, that was it. What did he mean?"

"Well, there are different kinds of people in our world," Mr. Weasley said. "There are of course wizards and witches, people who can use magic. The average folks. Now, some come from wizarding families, such as myself, and there are those who are born from Muggle parents."

"Like me?" Angela asked.

"Well, you're a bit of a special case, so not exactly. You see, there are also those who are born from magical parents but have no magical talent. These people are called Squibs, and they are fortunately rare."

"Fortunately?"

"It's a hard life being a person with no magic in a magical world. Like someone from the Muggle world born without a foot or a nose or something. However," he continued, "there is another kind of person, the rarest kind of all. A Twink, someone born of Muggle parents and without any magical talent - essentially a Muggle themselves - but gains magical talent and ability artificially."

"That's rare?" Angela asked, a little surprised.

"Quite. Magic isn't something you can just transplant or stick on, you've either got the ability or you don't. Being able to grant magical power to someone who is normally destined to be a Muggle for life is practically impossible, when it happens it's quite a phenomenon.

"Before you, the last Twink was a Muggle man who had quested for years until he found a lantern in the deserts of Arabia with an efreeti inside. He used the wish granting powers of the being to have magical talent granted to himself, but that was centuries ago. When you read the Book of Black, however, the spells burning into your mind were so potent that you were immediately blessed with the ability to use magic like the rest of us. And so, there you are, Muggle-turned-witch, also known as a Twink."

Angela nodded and tried to think of any other questions while she had Mr. Weasley's ear, but was unable to come up with anything else and was frankly too tired to think any more; she had had a short night and realized she needed a long sleep, especially since the sun was barely rising back in Oklahoma. Besides, she was feeling much better after sitting comfortably and talking with Mr. Weasley, getting the more prominent questions she had off her chest. Stretching slightly, Angela hopped off the chair, Mr. Weasley following suit as she did.

"Are we off then?" he asked.

"Yup," replied Angela, a little happier, and the two of them left the conference room and headed out into the hall beyond.