The Bureau Of Loopholes

The Bureau of Loopholes had been known as the Sheridan Firm for most of its existence. A large and prestigious legal firm with a spotless reputation and a team of dedicated researchers and representatives, it had been passed down through the Sheridan family for generations. It had been given Ministry Aid Firm status in 1967 at the urging of Philip Sheridan, the firm's director at the time, and most upstanding witches and wizards agreed that there could be no more respectable institution in the history of legal practice. Of course, when Philip Sheridan died and his daughter Colleen took over, she promptly proceeded to throw the concept of reputability out the window.

In 1968, Colleen Sheridan decided that a name change would be good for publicity. To implement this change, she gathered the finest in the field, a host of stand-up comedians, wireless personalities, and wits from the research department, to concoct a suitable title for her company. It was Harold Pettigrew, head of the research department, who finally suggested the accepted name: the Bureau of Loopholes. A delighted Ms. Sheridan immediately promoted him to co-director.

After the change of names, the focus of the firm shifted as well. While once it had been like any other legal firm, supplying lawyers and law-interpreters in droves, now the Bureau began to put more emphasis on the research department. Claimants now wrote to the firm with an outline of their case and could receive a detailed listing of laws and 'loopholes' that would help them represent themselves in court, at less charge than they would be required to pay for a lawyer. While the Bureau would no longer collect as much money per client, the number of clients skyrocketed.

Of course, reflected Peter as he mentally reviewed the company's history, the Bureau couldn't help everyone. Like Remus', some cases were too explosive to be looked into. After the Bureau began to question and interpret Ministry laws in its own ways, the Ministry had yanked away their endorsement, and an extremely peeved Colleen had instructed her staff not to 'step on any Ministry toes'. Taking on the entirety of Ministry policy toward humans with accidentally-inflicted preternatural conditions would not so much step on Ministry toes as it would attempt to crush the entire Ministry leg. As much as Ms. Sheridan would have liked to confront the Ministry head-to-head on civil-rights issues, she reluctantly recognized that perhaps that wouldn't be the brightest course of action at this time.

So Remus Lupin and his campaign would wait for developments in the Ministry, while the Bureau of Loopholes would wait for a shift in power from the Ministry to the people.

Peter signed the personal note to Remus and put it in the envelope with Colleen's form letter. He cared as much as anyone about things like werewolf rights and hag/warlock integration, but he was in no position to do anything about it. The Board of Judges had been known to rule sympathetically in the past; if Lupin's movement – he'd forgotten its name again – would deal with the cases one by one, eventually they would have all their cases resolved.

"Still a rotten way to do business," he muttered, closing the envelope and attaching it to the owl's leg.

"What?" asked a coworker, Mundungus Fletcher, looking up from some reports on monetary government reparations.

"It's really rotten, making the H.W.A.I.P.C.'s trot their cases out for the Ministry courts one at a time," Peter commented, checking his watch. Five minutes until his shift was done.

Mundungus rubbed his hands together, with a con artist's gleam in his eyes. "Ah, but if they have to come to us one at a time, think of the money we'd be making!"

Peter shook his head at the unscrupulous man. Fletcher was brilliant, really, a terrible liar but excellent at partial truths, and a veritable genius when it came to finding loopholes – in other words, the epitome of a lawyer, and an ideal Bureau employee. But he was the kind of self-obsessed person that Peter had vowed never to become. "It's not about the money. It's about the fact that we have about sixteen thousand people in this world who are discriminated against because of things they can't change. Doesn't that matter to you?"

Mundungus nodded sagely. "It does, believe me. My auntie Atropos is a hag, and there's no sweeter woman alive. But . . . doesn't the money matter to you?"

"No. It doesn't, and if I didn't have an obligation to this company I'd be out protesting with the rest of them," Peter spat, more vehemence in the words than he had intended. Mundungus shrugged in surrender.

"Sorry, sorry. I just can't understand people who don't want money; it's such a real form of power. If I ever got rich, think of what I could do!" he exulted, smiling with white, pointed teeth. "Those who don't want power are mad."

Peter looked at his watch again. Not much longer, and he'd be free for the weekend. As he shoved the robe sleeve back over his timepiece, Mundungus' raven-cunning eyes alighted on the gold and silver.

"What's this . . . my, my, a lovely watch, this! Real gold, hmm?" he asked, yanking the arm closer to peer at the Roman numerals and faux-crystal.

"No," Peter said hurriedly, pulling his arm back. "Just painted, I think. It cost fifteen sickles at a pawn shop."

"Ah, well," sighed the other man, almost visibly deflating. "It is a lovely thing, though." But he brightened up after glancing at the watch once more. "It's over! No more work until Monday! See you then, Peter; the people at the Leaky Cauldron need me!" With a chuckle and a wave, Mundungus Apparated away to his favorite venue – they always did a roaring trade on Friday nights.

Peter stroked the arm on which he wore his watch. It was his left arm, though he was left-handed, a choice he had made for the simple reason that regulation post owls tended to land on your right arm, and he didn't want the watch scratched. However, that wrist wasn't solely adorned by a cheap timepiece. A small, reddish brand was etched into the soft flesh of his pulse-point, symbol of the group (or was cult the proper term?) that Jason Macnair had more or less bullied him into. He didn't mind, really; though other members were stunt-pullers and such, killing people fanatically, he reasoned that as long as he kept well out of it, he might gain a bit of extra power without having to lose what mattered: his friends. Nevertheless, he didn't want to be discovered as a 'Death Eater'; the Magical Law Enforcement officers were searching for such people as suspects in murder cases.

Those who didn't want power were mad, but those who didn't care about their friends and their causes were just stupid.