"Argh! Where did you go?" Standing upright and running her hands through her bushy, shoulder-length brown hair, Hermione Weasley heaved a sigh and growled. "I know I put it here somewhere!" Lately at the Ministry, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione had been given long, arduous assignments, which she hoped would one day mark her as a hard worker; and while Ron adamantly believed that she was working far too hard for her to actually go anywhere in the Department, Hermione disliked so much the idea of Magical Creatures being regulated the way they had in the past. Especially under Umbridge, she thought bitterly, picking up a sheaf of parchment and scanning it before letting it fall back onto her creaking, groaning desk. "Argh! Where's Ronald when I need him?"

The moment she had spoken, she felt a hand on her backside, and she turned to see Ron standing close behind her, grinning ear to ear. "Looking for something, Hermione?" he said, his breath tickling her neck.

"Yes, Ronald..." said Hermione, unable to move for the sheer erotic pleasure his voice sent thrilling through her.

"And why don't you take five minutes to calm yourself down?" he said, placing a hand on her stomach and burrowing under the waistband of her jeans - she leaned into his body, which was so close to hers, and she felt his erect member pressing against her buttock. "Just enough time to relax and not worry about anything." Were they really going to do this now? She was so... ooh...! "No worrying when you're like this, eh?" he said, pressing his lips to the back of her neck and reaching under her shirt with his available hand. He fondled her breast, squeezing it and examining it.

"Ron..." murmured Hermione, her eyes closed and her breathing ragged. "Ron, are we really going to do this?"

"You tell me..." said Ron mischeivously. God, was his huge, pulsating...?

"Yes..." she said, turning to face him and stooping, cupping the lump in his pants. "Yes... just right now...!" She undid his belt skillfully and pulled at the snap on his jeans, bringing the zipper all the way down. She looked up at him and smiled greedily, squeezing his enormous member and stroking slowly, sensuously. "I know you like that..." she said, using Ron's own tricks against him. "I know you like it when I wank you. Don't deny it, Ronald!"

Ron groaned and leaned back as Hermione pulled out Ron's throbbing, scalding member through the john hole in his briefs.

"Yes..." she said, wet in spite of herself. "Yes..." She smiled as he groaned again and leaned his head back. When she was pleased with his position... how she would so have loved to put her mouth on his cock... she squeezed and twisted, catching Ron's testicles with the base of it. "Ronald Bilius Weasley! When I'm working, I don't want to do that with you, no matter how much I need it! I need that fucking parchment!"

"I don't know what... you're... talking about...!" Ron whimpered, unable to fall to his knees with Hermione's hand on his massive shaft.

"Either way..." said Hermione, squeezing harder and giving another little twist. "Either help me look for it, or have this thing clucking like a hen the rest of the month!"

"All... argh... right...!" Ron sniffed in pain, whimpering, his lip trembling.

Hermione released Ron, who fell to his knees and panted. His body trembled. "Was... was that totally... necessary?"

"No," said Hermione simply, Scourgifying and drying her hand with a couple of flourishes of her wand. "But it made me feel better. Relaxed me." She smirked with her back turned as she said it, throwing it back at him.

"What the bloody hell...?" As Ron leaned on the desk, his hand slipped and parchment flew everywhere.

"Oh, Ronald...!" Hermione was about to aim her fist at his john, which had been hastily returned to his briefs, when she saw what she had been looking for. "Oh!" She turned to her husband, the parchment in her hand. "Thank you, Ronald. You're a big help!" She kissed his lips and pulled back, smiling. "I guess now I can give you what you wanted in the first place..." She smirked.

"Oh, no! After what you did to me, I'm not letting you near my wanker for a month!" Ron stepped back and buckled his belt.

Hermione feigned astonishment. "That's a pretty heavy promise, Ronald!" Smirking suggestively, she added, "Especially when you see what I had in mind."

Dr. Langston sighed and finished his fourth Butterbeer of the past hour; in spite of his filling bladder, he wanted to find out what Mr. Delling had to say. He wanted to find out as much as possible. "You understand that I can't have you interfering with the investigation?" said Raymond, splaying his hands on the table. "That would allow the killer an opportunity to get away."

Nathan shook his head. "I'll try to stay out of your way. But..." said Nathan, raising a finger both to emphasize a point and to keep Raymond from protesting before he could finish, "I grew up with Muggles, and I have a lot of Muggle friends, all of whom know I'm a wizard. More to the point, though, I have something you might find useful, which I developed while watching some of my friends work." He stood and unbuttoned his robe, then allowed three objects to fall to the floor. When he was satisfied with their placement, he removed his robe and hung it over his chair.

Raymond watched with great intrigue as he realized that the three objects were in fact the legs of a tripod, which held up an instrument not unlike a typewriter attached to a record player. An old gramophone, he reminded himself, having seen a few.

"This," said Nathan, "is how I've caught at least fourteen wizards. It's my equivelant of what you might call a mass spectrometer. The thing is, though, that the databases are incomplete. I still have a lot of people to catch, and plenty more to sample. But even with the hundred or so people on the books, it can run a full analysis in minutes, while your machines might take a week or more." He smiled and looked over at Dr. Langston. "What d'you think?"

Raymond smiled in return and nodded to it. "Does it work?"

Nathan nodded, plucked a hair from his head, and placed it in a phial, which went into the gramophone-like part. "It'll still be a few minutes, but we'll have results. And put together the database with everything important about the people on record; name, age, birthdate, height and weight, convictions... and of course, I have to put their wand specifications in, too. Length, wood, core and physical description. Because no wands are alike," he explained at a look of confusion on Raymond's face. "I forget this is pretty new to you."

Dr. Langston shook his head and sat back in his chair. "That's fine. We're all human, right?"

"Not all of us," said a voice behind Raymond. Turning, Raymond found himself looking up into the eyes of a blonde-haired, roan-bodied centaur, well-muscled and kind-faced. "My name is Firenze."

Raymond nodded. "Raymond Langston."

"A pleasure, sir." He smiled and sighed. "I apologize if I have interrupted something."

"Not at all," replied Raymond and Nathan simultaneously.

Raymond stood and stretched. "We were just having a discussion about how this machine works."

"Quickly," said Nathan Delling, tearing a piece of parchment from a slot on the typewriter-like portion of the machine and handing it to Raymond. "You'll know all about me when you look at that."

"Facts... not really anything about you," corrected Raymond, his eyes quickly scanning the parchment. "Are there any errors in this?"

"Not the information," replied Nathan, patting it affectionately. "The machine, though, still has some bugs we have to work out. Even so, it's pretty reliable. There's really not a lot to complain about, but every once in a while, shit happens."

"Undoubtedly," said Raymond, handing the parchment back to Nathan. "Tomorrow, I'd like to talk to anyone who might be able to tell us anything about the wand we found on the victim." He folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"Be careful, Raymond Langston," said the centaur, who placed a hand on Ray's shoulder. "Mars was unusually bright last night. And I would not rush to any conclusions in your works."

Raymond smiled and nodded. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

The centaur left, and Nathan sighed. "Sometimes it's difficult to figure out what Firenze is talking about. Same with any centaur. But they really seem to know what they're talking about." He looked at Ray, who raised a brow, and nodded. "I remember what you said before we were interrupted. And yes, I agree. I hear his great-great-great granddaughter, Marina Cromwell, might be able to give us an idea as to the wand's specifics."

"Don't you mean, 'specifications?'"

Nathan shook his head. "No. Specifics. How long ago Ollivander crafted it, how long it was in his store, how he obtained the elements that made the wand when combined. All of this is important."

Raymond nodded and made a mental note. "Then I also want to talk to Lucius Malfoy. Maybe we'll be able to figure out who might have wanted the victim dead."

Nathan shook his head, his eyes on his knuckles on the table. "That's not going to be easy, Dr. Mr. Malfoy's in the damn tightest-ass prison in the world. You can't just stroll in and ask to see him, even with fewer Dementors there these days."

Ray's brow furrowed. "'Dementors?'"

"Yes. Guards of Azkaban Prison. They're big, hooded and cloaked. They're invisible to Muggles, and whenever they're near, one will feel the joy and happiness sucked out of their surroundings." Nathan shuddered. "They fly, though generally they prefer to glide a few inches off the ground. Not at all something I'd want you around. Being a Muggle... I can't imagine you'd survive more than a few minutes before they sucked your soul out through your mouth." He looked nervously at Ray. "I'm not scaring you, am I?"

Ray paused, then shook his head. "No. I mean, I've seen a lot in the past couple of days, but I don't think I'm educated enough to be scared of... what did you call them? Dementors?"

"Yeah," said Nathan, sighing. "Well, I've got to turn in. I'll be in room three if you need. And I'll get your bill. Even if Catherine and Lindsey have some gold on them, it's the least I can do."

Raymond went up to his room some time later, sitting on his bed and sighing. He had to admit, he had had a tough day in spite of the relatively light workload he had to contend with. Then again... could all of this be real? Was it possible that he was in London, and that he had traveled across the Atlantic simply by stepping into a fireplace? The thought was too much for him right now.

Instead of dwelling on this, he went over to the mirror, took off his glasses, and ran a hand over his face. "Raymond... you have got to accept that this is real," he said to himself. His eyes bulged and he leaped back when a voice responded to him.

"Talking to yourself in the third person," it said, "is a definite sign of madness."

"Who said that?" said Raymond, eyeing the mirror suspiciously. He looked around the room for liklier suspects but found none.

"What?" said the mirror. "You don't appreciate friendly advice from your mirror?"

"I grew up in a world," said Raymond, "where unless someone is crazy, they don't appreciate advice from their mirror. At all."

"Oh," said the mirror, sounding affronted. "Then I guess I'll just be quiet. And when you make to leave the room, I'll say something rude behind your back." There was a sound of the mirror blowing a raspberry, and then Raymond found himself alone in silence.

He sighed, then turned and made his way to his suitcase, from which he produced a pair of pajama bottoms. As he turned to close the bathroom door behind him, he distinctly heard the mirror mutter to itself, "Dumbass."

Raymond Langston strode into the wand shop, looking around at the boxes stacked right up to the ceiling.

"May I help you?" said a small, younger woman with a bright, youthful face.

Ray looked around the shop. "Yes. I was wondering whether someone would be able to tell me something about a particular wand." He pulled out the shaft of wood and handed it to the witch.

The witch's face went blank as she studied the wand, muttering to herself. "Orchidius," she muttered, producing a bouquet of chrysanthemums from the end of the wand. "I see," she said, handing it back to him. "This particular wand was sold to a Samuel James nearly fifty years ago."

Ray nodded. "Samuel James. Do you know anything about him?"

"Yes," said the witch, walking away and ordering the stacked boxes slightly. "He's a good man with a career in experimental herbology, authorized of course by the Ministry. He's family-oriented, though, although he's never had children, never married." She looked back at Raymond, then glanced at Delling. "May I inquire as to what this is about?"

Raymond looked at Delling, who nodded. "Mr. James is dead. He was murdered."

"What...?" She stepped back and shook her head. "It can't... of course, I'd heard rumors, but..."

"You don't read the Prophet, then?" said Delling, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't pay attention to the news at all, Mr. Delling. Not even the Quibbler! And the reason I know you is, of course, the fact that you were in the shop when Mr. Ollivander, bless his soul, sold you your wand."

Delling nodded. "Maybe you remember the specifications of my wand?"

"Ash, six inches, dragon heartstring. Rather strong, good for Transfiguration."

"That's correct." Delling sighed and pulled out a slip of parchment, studied it for a moment, then replaced it. "Does Mr. James have any surviving family?"

The witch shook her head. "Nor can I name any of his colleagues or friends. I'm afraid I can't help you there."

Raymond nodded and turned to Delling, who did the same. "Thank you, Ms. Ollivander. We'll be in touch."