'Kysely!'
'Sir?'

A balding, overweight man, stormed over to her small, rectangle shaped desk. Stacks of documents were in neatly placed bundles, and Tamar folded her ink-stained hands as she stared up at him, waiting for him to make his request.

His deplorable physical state caused him to be out of breath by the time he had reached her side; the hairs of his gray mustache brushed due to his fervent gaps. Most of all, he resembled an enraged hippo. As Tamar waited for him to compose himself, she let her eye glide over the framed newspaper articles, attached to the wall behind him.

Each one presented an enigma; although she had seen them everyday for several months, the work took up so much time she had only ever had the chance to read the headlines; Tamar knew the context, however, and because of this she knew them to be important.

Supposedly, they more most likely meant to intimidate the workers; to remind them that they had lost.

MINISTRY OVERRUN, FUDGE DEAD

INCIDENT AT HOGWARTS, DUMBLEDORE SLAUGHTERED

POTTER FLEES BRITAIN

Perhaps the most insulting aspect of it all, Tamar mused, was the fact that there were no clippings from the Muggle-Wizard War. When the Kingdom of Great Britain had been threatened to lose all of its autonomy to a violent oppressor, (poetic justice to some she was sure) they had stopped short of nothing to prevent it. The shrill voice of the Prime Minister declaring they would fight to the last man was burned into Tamar's memory.

Yet, in spite of all of it, they had decided to only display newspaper excerpts from the Second Wizarding War. Most of the chosen pieces were inconsequential to the Muggles employed in the building; the significance was lost to them. The sentiment was more or less the same; 'Us' victor, 'Them' loser. Although the notion of a wizarding resistance was comforting.

It also made Tamar wonder, if the Second Wizarding War had been that much worse. Thousand of British soldiers had lied down their lives to fight the enemy, however, the horrors of the war the wizards had fought amongst themselves remained unknown to them. Surely the amount of casualties had been lower than the Muggle-Wizard War, but this meant relatively little considering Muggles outnumbered wizards about a hundred to one.

This logic served to explain behaviors she had seen wizards and witches exhibit; while she did not know any wizards or witches closely, the ones she did see on regular occasions were set on one of two emotions: anger or sadness.

For the man in front of her was a perfect example. Nearly everyday, from morning to night, his face was set in an expression of dissatisfaction; Tamar had never seen him smile. As to why, her speculations were endless, though she doubted she would ever truly understand.

'You've already finished your pile!' He pointed his fat, sausage-esque finger at her, in what seemed to be an accusation. 'I've told you before you need to read the articles we supply you.'

A serious amount of self-control, is what it took for Tamar to not sigh, exasperated with the man's quarrels. Moreover, there was no sense in repeating this conversation again, she thought.

After having carefully considered her words as to not cause offense, she began her monologue. 'Sir, with all due respect,-'

In spite of her suspicions, he interrupted her. 'Try to follow instructions next time. In any case, our supervisor wants to see you after your scheduled working hours today.' Upon hearing this, Tamar was struck dumb. With what reason could she possibly entertain a meeting with a.. Superior? Granted, she was naught but a mere pencil pusher; how could her position be of enough significance to have a conference with a senior in charge of hundreds of labourers?

The man shifted away slowly, having left Tamar to recover from her shock. 'Sir, excuse me, sir!' She shrieked timorously.

Lethargic, the man turned around, to regard her with cool indifference. Unsurprisingly, he seemed disconnected from the fate of his employee. With a grim look, he tilted his head to regard her. 'Yes?'

His coolness unnerved Tamar. 'If I may ask, with what purpose will I meet with said superior?'

In hindsight, the expectation of a real answer had been futile. It stood to reason that the man had simply been following orders, and had no palpable idea of the larger scheme of the story. In any case, he solely shrugged and walked away.

As a new pile of articles magically appeared on Tamar's desk, she sorted them, one after the other, with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The man's instructions had been far from unjustified; after all, it was true that she did not read the articles. She, among a hundred other Muggles or so, was assigned a number of articles daily, to be categorized 'notable' or 'inconsequential'. When the explanation had been given what that was supposed to mean, it had been thrown on the 'Foreign Muggle Threat', provided Tamar remembered correctly. In Great Britain, Muggles had been unquestionably defeated, though unfortunately for the current government, abroad Muggle's were still keen and merry. In a second, regrettable choice, the present administration had very little knowledge of Muggle activity in general. They'd always flicked their wand and called it a day, without considering the possibility of a larger problem. Thus, they had needed Tamar and other Muggles to sort useful from useless, when it came to processing information.

In university, Tamar had minored in International relations. Therefore, there was no need to read the articles carefully, as she knew their contents very well. Nevertheless, it truly did not take a prodigy to sort the material. The banality of some of the snippets never failed to surprise her on given occasions. Who would, for example, be interested that some bloke in Stockholm had sunk his boat? Moreover, who in heaven's sacred name, would think that this could somehow be relevant to winning a global conflict? While Tamar loved to learn new facts, she had a feeling the wizards were grasping in the dark, without making any legitimate effort to decide on priorities.

How did they go about selecting the articles, she couldn't help but wonder.

Nevertheless, it was a safe assumption she'd most likely never discover it.

As the day neared it's end, she felt a fire light up her entire being. An inkling had settled itself in her consciousness; similarly she was excited, and she was frightened. Although she found her occupation to be satisfactory (notwithstanding, the fact that it was not nearly as pleasing as the one she'd held before), the structure of the new British society had all made them bow to the humdrum of normalcy. The appeal of the thrill of the unknown could not be denied. (In spite of the fact that, realistically, the meeting could also have something quite horrible in store for her…)

Upon the moment the clock struck six o'clock, her fellow compeers rose in quick succession, and consequently left the office. Unsure of how to proceed, Tamar stayed at her workstation. In a moment's notice, a dark-skinned man struck his head through the door, regarding her with an inquisitive expression. Stiffly, he slipped into the room, and cleared his throat.

'Tamar Kysely?' Still in a quite uncomfortable voice, he inquired towards the only person in the room. It was absolutely miraculous, she reflected, that a room that had hosted more than fifty people prior could be emptied out so fast.

Despite of her intense amusement of his evident awkwardness, Tamar decided to humor the poor man. 'Present, sir.'

Clearly not comforted, he scratched the back of his head. 'Right. If you'll follow me, please.'

The apparent decency of his manners surprised her. Surely, not all wizards were cold and uncaring, but she'd never heard one use the word 'please' in addressing her previously. Therefore, albeit she knew herself to be irrational, her hopes in regard to her apparent meeting brightened considerably.

The building was larger than she had expected, she considered as she followed the man. While it was true she, naturally, only saw a small part of it, she had considered its full size before, and it the interior did not seem to match the exterior in the slightest. 'Dreary dwelling in East London' was truly the most fitting description one could give. Even on a reasonable day, it most resembled an abandoned repository. Which it most likely had been, before it had been taken back into use. In any case, Tamar was reasonably certain it only had two floors or so, and they were now ascending the fourth staircase. Curious to test her theory, she decided to see how amiable this man was, by seeing if he was willing to answer a question.

'Pardon me, sir?'

Cautiously, he turned his head, from his position slightly above her, where he was standing.

'Yes?' The sudden initiation of contact seemed to have startled him; brusque, but not unfriendly, he turned his body to face Tamar.

'Well, if you don't resent my asking, it seems we have continued to move on to the fourth floor, yet it seems, from the outside, that this building only has two.'

In effect, the man smiled, whereafter an impish look remained on his profile. 'Right. What do you believe the explanation for this impossibility is?'

The answer was ostensibly clear. There was no question, as to how this was feasible.

'Magic.' A common word that held so much weight. Indeed, the enormity of this resolution was immeasurable. Logically, a mind could accept it, yet the details of the occurrence could hardly be grasped by a layman. How, say, would one go about extending said space, for example? To a common Muggle, the manners and techniques, were naught but a fata morgana.

'Correct.' Was his uncluttered response.

As brief as his answer was, as unsatisfied was she with it. 'Fine.. But how would it be.. Brought into existence, so to speak?'

She was surprised to find he considered a fulfilling response for a brief moment. While they trudged up the stairs, the only sound Tamar could hear were their footsteps, and her own shallow breathing. Markedly, the echo was an incredibly thundering sound. By the likes of it, the building must have had at least ten floors or so.

'Only a wizard, incredibly skilled in extension charms, would be able to create a vacuum such as this one. It's very important to understand the magical structure, and the reinforcements it needs. A commonly skilled wizard could manage a small extension charm on a bag, though nothing quite like this.'

'So I gather you do not know how to execute this sort of an.. extension..?' Fearing a bad reaction, Tamar carefully trodded the line of conversation.

A brash, though not unfulfilled smile made it's way upon the man's face. 'Afraid not, no. I believe the field of Mastery is Charms, however, it would require further study, even of an expert to manage.'

To think Magic was so vast there were several fields of expertise, boggled Tamars mind. It was not at all what children stories' had made it out to be. Conversely, the practical application of magic was surprisingly logical. Rather, the wizards with long white beards dressed in colourful robes did not seem to exist in this world, as far as Tamar had seen.

'Fascinating.'

That was the last word spoken between them, as they made their way closer to their destination. The mans conversation had managed to slightly quill Tamar's fear, Correspondingly, she became more enticed with each step.

Ultimately, after what had seemed like ages, the man headed into a corridor, with Tamar trailing close behind. It was entirely nondescript; grey walls and grey doors, reminiscent of a particularly wearisome government office. Which Tamar supposed it was.

At the very end of the corridor, the man, at last, moved to open a door. Inside was an office, not at all similar in appearance to the rest of the building. A very large window illuminated the four-walled chamber, Nevertheless, an enchanted chandelier hung from the ceiling. Paintings with moving figures illustrated, drew the eyes of all who entered. Most imposing of all, however, was the considerable red oak desk situated in the middle of the study; behind it, a figure was sitting on a hefty leather chair.

'You're late, Zabini.' The figure uttered without going through the trouble of facing them.

Nor the figure, nor Zabini were forthcoming or apologetic. 'Shall we begin then, sir?'

In reaction, the figure sighed, and turned his chair around. It took Tamar all her measure of self-control not to gasp; or have surprise show on her face. Before her sat the man named Macnair, a man whose company she'd been satisfied in never sharing again; truly his presence was a harbinger of adversity.

If her reaction had been cause for his suspicion, he had not shown it in the slightest. Instead, he motioned for the two of them to sit down in the chair. At the instant they were seated, Macnair folded his hands, and turned to stare at Tamar intensely.

'Tamar Kysely.' He spoke her name with a degree of ownership. 'Your overseer tells us you do not actively read the articles we provide for you to sort.' Abruptly, he stopped to gauge her reaction.

In contrast, she fought her own inner battle between disbelief, panic and cynicism. Had these two men sincerely dragged her to this office, to scold and threaten her for not following instructions? It felt ridiculous, even aberrant, to single out one Muggle for this sole purpose. Had they meant to make an example out of her, to subjugate the hoi polloi?

Or was it merely an intimidation technique?

The latter proved to be truthful. 'Nevertheless, when your conclusions were scrutinized by other Muggles, they all proved to be correct. How do you manage to sort the articles correctly, if you abstain from absorbing the subject matter?'

Indeed, the answer 'common sense' could not do at all. Although this amount or ignorance was difficult for Tamar to bear, she decided it was in her best interest to answer the man genuinely.

'While my scientific expertise is by large technological, I took courses in international diplomacy during my studies.' She prayed the man wouldn't inquire further; she did not know how long her patience would hold.

Macnair seemed aware of this information. 'Ah yes. That makes you the ideal candidate for our little.. Opening.' A beastly smile graced his features; truly, he was not a handsome creature. Evidently, he was finished playing his games, as he turned his attention to his colleague, clearly wanting the man to speak.

No love was lost between the two. Zabini gave the distinct impression he would rather swallow barbed wire than go along with Macnair's scheme.

'Should you accept, the two of us we will be working together on this project. My name is Absalom Zabini.' Noticeably, he continued his unforeseen act of civility, by offering his hand for her to shake.

Despite her lack of trust in the mens motives, she gladly accepted his hand. When she retreated back into her chair, she decided it was advisable to be realistic, albeit the groveling still having to be part of her demeanor. 'If I have a choice in the matter, I would like to know what the project entails.'

Although Macnair did not seem to be the in the type of mind to humor her, he gave her a brief explanation of the proceedings. 'In the present day, foreign Muggle assailants lurk at our coast.'

Briefly, Tamar felt a swell of pride.

'While they cannot travel beyond our wards, there is no telling what threat they could pose, once they receive wizarding assistance.' He momentarily paused to gather his thoughts. 'Due to the nature of our charms, and due to the risk the Muggle's pose, we cannot lower the wards, nor can we look beyond them by magical means. Be that as it may, it would be possible to achieve this with Muggle technology.'

'Oh?' Tamar inquired.

'Although more modern devices cannot function under the strain of magical interference, older Muggle equipment seems to be resistant to this problem.'

'It's most likely that it's caused by the reduced frequency.' She said in spite of herself. 'I suppose it would be possible to use an instrument, such as a radar, at a low frequency to diminish the chance of a breakdown.'

A silence swept over the present company, invigorated by the four blank pair of eyes staring at Tamar, that indicated a grave lack of comprehension. With a brief bout of hesitation, Tamar wondered if she should bother to explain the mechanics of this process to the two men, regardless, she suspected the intent would be lost on them.

Attempting to make a slight recovery, Macnair asked her a question. 'Could you set up said equipment, use it, and tell us exactly what danger lies in wait?'

'Exactly? No. By and large, I can say even without going to the coast that it's presumably submarines. It would be wisest, if the circumstances are agreeable, to measure the amount of electromagnetic waves on several days, during several intervals. If we were to gauge some type of routine, perhaps, at a certain moment, the wards could be let down in order to use a higher frequency, as to detect aircrafts and ships from a larger distance.'

As her response was met with more silence, Tamar wondered if she'd just betrayed her own kind. Although she knew that the two men in front of her could never effectively use the information she had just provided them, given she'd more or less agreed to help them, she'd be consorting with the enemy. Regardless, relatively speaking, if they knew this little of the opposition they planned on going to head with, their chances of winning were positively abysmal. One Muggle clarifying the basics of radio waves, was not going to help them best modern warfare.

'So you'll do it then?' Zabini replied bluntly.

Her preferable response would have been a noncommittal shrug, but she settled for a clear answer instead.

'Yes. I accept your proposition.'

Sitting opposite of her, Macnair still seemed to be recovering from temporary obfuscation. Nonetheless, he made a quick recovery to seize the opportunity.

'Most excellent. You will report to me after you've finished your assignment.'