Chapter 7: The Twin Socialites

The tight squeeze of apparation vanished as Emily reappeared in front of the Pillar of Truth. When she first learned apparation, she remembered throwing up her lunch all over the Great Hall. However, it was much like riding a broom: you only got better with time and practice. And once you learned, it was harder even to unlearn it. She looked up at the Pillar, shining above her in the midday sun. Hermione had yet to arrive-Emily had arrived a few minutes early.

Not for the first time, Emily thought the Pillar would've been better named the Obelisk of Truth. Cast in pure marble, embossed with a magical sheen, it stood proud on the bank of the Thames as one of the entry points of the Whitehall sector: Malfoy Bridge stood beside it, connecting either side of the Thames. It was as central a location as one could pick, without going to the Ministry Pyramid itself. Even so-Emily typically had little reason to frequent the area in the past year.

Here was where the top of the top lived. Rows of fancy, magical apartments, each more magnificent than the last, stood astride one another. It was even fancier than Diagon-each row of apartments was a veritable mansion. The truly powerful lived here: all the Deputy Undersecretarys, all the Wizengamot Warlocks and Sorceresses, all the foreign dignitaries, all of the Sacred 28-basically, if you had any iota of power, you lived here.

Emily might've lived here herself, if decades of work in a dead-end job could wipe away her family's name. In another life, she'd have married some other nameless bureaucrat, and had a boring government job, with boring government-approved children. Then those kids would've had kids, and maybe then, the shame would've been wiped away enough to where she could actually have a hovel worth showing off. Alas, patience was never her chief strength.

Emily leaned against the Pillar, still waiting. There were eleven other Pillars, each representing one of the Master's Spheres. To hear the Ministry's spinmeisters talk of it: 'the Spheres are the world, and the Pillars the bastions which hold up the world'. Not literally, of course. Each country had their own set of Pillars-nothing more than symbolism for an otherwise faraway Master. The Pillar of Truth, currently serving as her backrest, represented the Sphere of Truth, which had a monopoly on the truth, as the Master depicted it. All newspapers, all records of history, all wireless broadcasts, all were controlled by this sole Sphere.

Other Pillars stood in clear view: the Pillar of Surplus, which was similar to the Pillar of Truth except that that one stood in the centre of a fountain spewing endless, enchanted water. Surplus controlled all production and econoplans, and were responsible for feeding the billions of people on the Earth. The water was enchanted to fill one's appetite-alas, it had zero nutritional value. Beyond Surplus stood Ancient Knowledge: black-carved obsidian gleaming bright in the daylight. They ran the study of ancient magic, seeking to gleam long-forgotten spells and resurrect them for the current age. Barely visible beyond that was Health: a snake coiled on a sepulchre-white obelisk, a stone eagle standing proud atop it. Like Surplus, it too stood in the centre of a fountain-this one spewing feel-good water. It didn't actually heal any wounds, but that it tasted great and gave one a silly high couldn't be discounted.

There were others, too, beyond where she could see. Law, of course, headed by Igor Karkaroff. Nations, representing the Ministries. Creatures, for the non-sentient beings. Internal Affairs, for the actual sentient beings. Labour had the slave labour, while Transportation was likewise revealed by its name. Hallows ran the state cult and worship of the Master. By far the opaquest one was Mysteries, though. Like the English Ministry's own Department of Mysteries, no one knew what the Sphere of Mysteries did. This was represented in their Pillar: a distorted, rippling, vanishing, and teleporting piece of abstract obelisk.

Sometimes it would just be a half-an-obelisk, the edges blurred and waving around. Other times it'd show up half embedded in a building a few hundred miles away, the distortion even affecting the area around it. Touching it was said to drive one mad. Looking too long at it could cause one to see beyond the standard human spectrum. As it was, everyone, even Aurors, avoided the Mystery pillar. When Hermione had suggested that as a meetup location, at least Emily could take comfort in knowing she had found a kindred insane spirit. Thankfully, Emily had convinced her otherwise.

She'd been standing up against Truth for at least ten minutes now-still no Hermione. Emily scrunched her face over the now-dying light. Hermione should've been here now. She didn't trust the frazzled-haired witch, but she thought that at least she'd be punctual.

"'cuse me," a bald, tanned woman said as she parted from the passing walking crowd and walked up to Emily. She was middle-aged, dressed in a thick robe, with deep creases in her skin. "You've got the time?"

"Uhh…" Emily said, casting a quick wandless tempus, "quarter past 12."

"Sorry I'm late," the opposing witch said. "Had to get a new face."

Emily looked at the woman again. "Hermione?"

The woman put a finger to her lips. "I'd be here sooner, trust me." Emily could hear it now-her tell-tale voice and accent. Impressive. Even on close inspection, whatever spell Hermione was using would be hard to detect.

"I forgive you. Y'know what they say. A witch is never late nor early. She arrives precisely when she means to." She nodded once at Hermione. "That a glamour?"

Hermione shook her head. "Those are concentration-intensive to upkeep without a rune or other enchanted item. And way too easily broken by Auror spells."

"So…" Emily had seen the real Hermione; she definitely did not look Iike this.

"It's a face, like I said."

"Like an actual face?"

"Is there any other type?" Emily's reaction was one dual horror and disgust. At which, Hermione took a deep breath. "I cleaned it! And getting a face mould is far easier and cheaper."

"Whose face?"

"Someone's," Hermione shrugged. "A Muggle, in Unterlondon. One of the many forgotten corpses in the darker corners. Not like she needed it anyways, being dead and all. And no, I didn't kill her."

Emily shook her head. "You're scary, you know that?"

"I've been told I'm equal parts scary and brilliant."

"Why do we even need the Polyjuice?" Emily asked.

"Because, all it takes is one good dispel and the face decomposes and falls off. Polyjuice doesn't have the same restriction."

Emily knew that, had known that before she asked. Seeing someone wear a living face mask tended to off-put her by a bit. She supposed living as a marked criminal took one to unseen heights; what had her own mother gone through to escape the Ministry? She shuddered, deciding not to overly ponder it.

"So, what's the plan?" Emily asked.

Hermione waved her over as she started walking towards the apartments across the street. "Clarissa von Ribbentrop and Melania Clarke are roommates; they share a flat within the Whitetree complex-gated apartment complex. During the day, they stay at home; at night, they attend one of the dozen parties they get invited to. Sometimes they visit the Ministry; their respective fathers do work there after all. Sometimes they go on holiday. But today, right now, they're here."

"How'd you learn all this?" Emily asked.

"Magic!" At Emily's eye roll, Hermione said, "Again, I've been planning this job for months. I've done my homework. Also, Clarissa writes everything down. Including schedules."

"Useful. So, rules of engagement?" Emily wouldn't care much about killing either socialite, or cursing them senseless.

"As much as I'd like to see them both dead, nothing more than stunners," Hermione said. "We can't risk a trail. So, we'll stun them, read their memories, and then rewrite them."

"Read? I thought Polyjuice allowed you to assimilate the person's memories?"

"The potion's powerful, but not foolproof. We need to be sure."

As Hermione finished talking, they reached the iron-wrought gate of Whitetree. Beyond, a set of steps leading to the internal lobby, past bronze-gold doors. There were no elevators or stairs visible.

The iron gate opened with a simple swish and murmured Alohomora from Hermione ("Occam's razor," the other witch had whispered), and then the two were walking up the stairs, through the door and into the lobby. A single red-suited man sat behind an ornate red-brown desk, casually flipping through the Prophet while a nearby orb replayed last week's Quidditch. His eyes were drooping low, as if he were barely interested in his job or anything going on around him. The door behind them clinked shut.

Hermione and Emily walked up to the man, who only then peered beyond the brim of his paper to see them both approach. With a raised eyebrow, he put the paper down. His gold-tinted name tag red: 'Josiah', and without any other clear mark or tell, Emily had to guess that this was a squib. She stole a glance at Hermione, who laid one of her hands on the desk, the other gripping her wand tight behind her back.

"You residents?" the man said.

"Heavens no!" Hermione said, her accent taking on a sudden affectation. "I'm here to see the Christophs."

"Right then," the man yawned. "I'll need to ring them up, and then you both need to sign in." He was about to place his hand on the wireless dispatcher, when, all of a sudden, a cloud of grey energy struck him the forehead, before dissipating. Josiah blinked twice, then looked at the dispatcher in hand, clearly confunded beyond reason.

"Oh, you already called up, and they said it was fine," Hermione said.

Josiah shrugged, placing the dispatcher down, and then slid over a clipboard. Hermione bent over first, and scribbled something with a quill. After that, she backed away, letting Emily do the same. She glanced at Josiah, who clearly didn't know if he was here or there or anywhere. There was little reason in signing any name, but Emily figured why not at least see what her fellow witch had written. Beneath the row of other names, Hermione had scribbled 'A. Dumbledore'. Emily smirked, adding her own 'G. Grindelwald' below hers.

With that done, Josiah waved them by, nearly swatting the orb down in the process. With a roll of her eyes, she joined Hermione back near the centre of the lobby. "I don't see an elevator," Emily said. "Or floo, for that matter. How are we-"

Her question was cut off mid-phrase as she and Hermione were both lurched upwards, twisting inside and out, flurrying through a temporal time-space where nothing and everything existed simultaneously. Faster than the speed of light yet slower than molasses, they spun, time itself breaking and reshaping into an infinite orgy of splintered realities-and then-Emily was back, collapsed on the floor.

With a cough, she righted herself, standing up straight. "I hate portkeys," she said. Hermione fared far better, already standing. "Where are we?" she asked, taking a look around. As far as she could tell, they were in an opulent hallway, filled with moving paintings, patrolling statues, dancing chandeliers. Several doors stood on either side of the hallway, each doubtless leading to an apartment. Above the one where they had landed near: the name Christoff.

"You've never portkeyed before?" Hermione asked, already moving past this door.

"I have, it's just that I hate it with a burning passion."

Hermione scoffed. "And here I thought I was the uneducated. To answer your question, we landed near our target. We're a short walk away."

Emily huffed, and pushed her legs to walk beside Hermione. "They have no guards, right?"

Hermione shook her head. "Their father is important, but not that important."

Emily nodded. "Hopefully Ron is having as good a time as we are." Taking down centuries-long runes and wards in a short time was extremely difficult. But he had a knack of logical, methodical thinking. If there was anyone suited for the task, it was him. Still, she didn't envy him at all.

"I've been wondering… You and him?"

"What?" Emily asked, confused for a minute before realizing. "Oh. No. Lord, no. Sweet baby dragons no. He's like a brother to me."

"Does he know that?"

"Duh. Ron and I have been best friends since we were wee babes. Why? Are you looking passionately at our dashing Weasley?"

"I-What? No! I was just curious, is all. Two, same-age young adults, braving life together, through thick and thin. It drives a girl curious."

"Right," Emily said. "Well, if it's just curiosity, I can say for certain that Ron is extremely, woefully single." Minus the encounter with Buttstrode two nights ago, she added to herself.

They proceeded down the hallway in relative silence after that. Hermione stopped in front of a greenish-stone door, inlaid with embossed rubies. Like the lower gate, it opened with yet another First-Year spell. Honestly, Emily felt offended at the whole thing. With another flourished upward wand flick, the door swung open.

Brilliant, bright beams temporarily blinded her. By instinct, Emily had already snapped her wand to her hand, ready to launch a caustic ballast of curses. Instead, as her vision cleared, she noticed the beam of light was just opulent gold glinting on surfaces. There was wealth, there was gaudy wealth, and then… there was this.

They had entered what appeared to be the main foyer. A fountain with an enchanted, golden statute of a Spartan warrior stood in the centre, his armour bleeding red. The ceiling was an unmoving painting: one of a bearded white man surrounded by angels, touching another man's finger on the ground. At the far opposite side lay a magographic window: depicting an open beach rather than the typical London smog. A moving staircase to the far right, changing even now, like the one in Hogwarts; a kitchen to the left, the dishes being automagically cleaned and new dishes prepped.

They took a careful step forward: neither of the marks were visible. The mirrored marble floor echoed each foot-crash throughout the cavern-like room. Emily took a closer look at the blood in the fountain. There was a strange glint to it; she'd hunted enough vampires to know what blood looked like… and tasted like. Reaching her pinkie out, she let a little pool on the skin before sticking it in her mouth. She smacked her lips.

"Wine," she said to Hermione. The other witch rolled her eyes.

"So, this is how the upper echelon lives like," Hermione said.

"They're not even witches, right? This is insane." Emily nodded to the countertop, where an entire pig was being sliced. "Hiring wizards to do the enchantments for all that would cost more than most people could afford. And a full pig? You couldn't afford it even if you hoarded ration cards your whole life."

"I know," Hermione said.

She turned to her. "Why not just rob these gits? There's got to be enough wealth here to make a pretty sickle."

Hermione shook her head. "This is small potatoes." Before Emily could respond, she continued. "True wealth is power, and true power is magic. Sure, Black's gems and other gold would make us just about as healthy as all this. But the spells he has, the arcane knowledge within his vaults… that'd be priceless. And no, we can't rob the girls. No trail, remember?"

Emily huffed. "Fine. Where are they anyways?"

"Hey, are you guys the delivery?" a tiny voice chirped.

Emily and Hermione spun towards it, their wands both aimed and ready. A tall, probably as tall as six feet, blonde woman in a silk gown stood before them. She was flawless: her hair perfectly straight, her skin shining like whitened alabaster, her legs flawlessly proportioned, her eyes a beautiful azure, her nails trimmed and 'cured. Emily could even smell the small taint of strawberries.

"Melania?" Emily asked.

"Clarissa, actually," she said. "Hey Melania, I think our delivery is here." Another woman descended the stairs at that cry. She was as perfect as Clarissa, yet different too: tanned where Clarissa was white, raven-haired while her friend was blonde.

"Dibs," Emily said.

Hermione responded with a stunner, which Emily followed up with by casting one of her own. They then levitated the unconscious girls closer, laying them down on the chilly floor. Even knocked out, they still looked absolutely gorgeous. She didn't even feel the tense pull of a Veela allure; they were just that pretty by nature.

"You ever cast legilimency?" Hermione asked.

"Of course. It's a NEWT req for Dark Arts."

"Of course it is. All right then. I'll see you on the other side." Hermione levelled her wand at Clarissa and verbally cast, "Legilimens!"

Emily steeled herself first. As spells went, the casting was relatively easy. It's what happened as a result that made it difficult. She'd step directly into the victim's mind plane. It wasn't mind reading at all; she'd actually be diving in as an incorporeal form into the poor girl's mind. There were other methods, that allowed for a less direct interaction, but this was the only one that allowed direct absorption of the person and their secrets. All of Melania's fears, wants, all of them would become hers. And, if Melania knew Occlumency (one of the few magical skills that even Muggles could use), she'd be fighting against the defence of the mind. It was risky. An untrained witch could go into a coma if locked in the other's trained mind. To say nothing of the havoc the links mind could cause on each other.

Seeing that Hermione was already deep under, Emily raised her wand, and cast Legilimens.