The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the core arm of the Ministry of Magic and the highest authority in its legal system, housed several sub-departments:
The Auror Office, tasked with investigating magical crimes, detaining suspects, and executing Wizengamot trial procedures. The Wizengamot Administration Services, overseeing law creation and policy review. The Hit Wizard Reconnaissance Team, responsible for authorizing special operations permits for Aurors to combat dark magic threats.
These divisions wielded immense power, sometimes even coordinating other Ministry departments during crises. But since the fall of the Dark Lord nearly a decade ago, things had been quiet. The most urgent task last year was a minor magical exposure case: an old witch's enchanted tea set ended up in a Muggle antique shop, causing an incident with the Muggle buyer and her friends. The Auror Office retrieved the tea set, Memory Modification agents smoothed things over, and the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office handled the cleanup.
It should've been a straightforward breach of the Statute of Secrecy, but Dolores Umbridge, head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, stirred up trouble. Not content with stealing credit from the Weasleys and others, she tried to escalate the case into a major crisis, claiming it threatened the survival of British wizardkind.
Thankfully, the Wizengamot saw through her nonsense and upheld the original ruling, allowing everyone to enjoy a peaceful Christmas holiday.
Kingsley Shacklebolt sipped his beer and let out a soft sigh.
"If Umbridge gets wind of the Visumirror, she'll probably kick up another storm…"
He wasn't the only one with that thought. In the corner sat Rita Skeeter, the celebrated journalist and special contributor to The Daily Prophet.
The witch sat alone at a round table in the back, her meticulously styled blonde hair fixed into stiff, peculiar waves that clashed with her broad-jawed face. A pair of jewel-encrusted glasses perched on her nose, and her red-painted nails clutched a glass of gin and tonic, which she sipped delicately.
As one of the finest reporters and authors in the wizarding world, she knew every high-ranking Ministry official. Dolores Umbridge, who'd risen to office director before age 30, was a particular focus of her scrutiny.
Wearing pink cardigans and frilly skirts, fond of girlish accessories and fat, bow-wearing tabby cats—those were surface-level details anyone could observe. Useless.
What mattered was Umbridge's true nature: domineering, self-righteous, obsessed with controlling subordinates and currying favor with superiors, skilled at twisting situations to her advantage.
Skeeter saw similarities to herself, but her own methods were far more refined and discreet. Umbridge's crude power plays often alienated her colleagues.
Skeeter had done her homework. Umbridge claimed pure-blood heritage from the Selwyn family of Wiltshire, but her mother was a flighty, unkempt Muggle, her father a lowly Ministry janitor, and she had a Squib brother.
Umbridge was diligent but limited in ability. Her rise was built on flattery, stealing credit, and framing minor infractions as major crimes.
Skeeter had a detailed biography ready, waiting for Umbridge's downfall or retirement. If she ever became Minister, the book's sales would soar, and Skeeter's name would rival even Gilderoy Lockhart's in the wizarding world.
"Maybe I'll toss her another bone…" Skeeter mused, raising a heavily made-up eyebrow.
On the table, her crocodile-skin handbag sat beside a green Quick-Quotes Quill, scribbling furiously on parchment:
The Visumirror appears to be a purely magical creation, but any wizard with basic Muggle Studies knowledge can see it's modeled after Muggle televisions. This writer won't speculate on the deeper intentions behind such mimicry, but its influence is undeniable—a vast web quietly enveloping the British wizarding world. It's high time a perceptive wizard steps forward…
The next day, it was back to work.
Deep beneath Whitehall in London, the Ministry of Magic stirred to life.
The Prime Minister's office wasn't fully operational yet, giving Kingsley time to return to the Ministry for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's post-holiday morning meeting.
Outside the circular hall, fireplaces flared green as wizards arrived via Floo, while Apparition produced sharp pops in the air. Ministry staff shuffled in, their footsteps a chaotic rhythm, faces heavy with the post-holiday slump.
Golden lifts carried employees to their departments. Except for the basement's interrogation rooms and the Department of Mysteries, the upper floors buzzed with activity.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement…"
Many wizards found the lift's female voice cold, but Kingsley thought it suited the Ministry's gravitas.
Exiting the lift, he strode through the corridor, turned right at its end, and pushed open two heavy oak doors. The Auror Office wasn't a single room but an open space divided by wooden partitions. Regular Aurors worked in cubicles, while further in lay the meeting room.
The Department held a post-holiday briefing where representatives from each office reported on cases handled by on-duty staff. Most were minor—drunk wizards landing themselves or their friends in St. Mungo's. No major incidents had occurred in a decade.
Entering the meeting room, Kingsley scanned the room. The briefing hadn't started, and most attendees were present, except for Umbridge and Department Head Amelia Bones. After quiet greetings to colleagues, he didn't sit beside his direct superior, Rufus Scrimgeour, but next to the trainee Auror taking notes.
At the table's end sat a lively witch with bright pink hair and sparkling black eyes, openly sizing up her captain.
Nymphadora Tonks grinned. "Hey, Captain, you made it."
"Yep."
Kingsley glanced at her notebook, where a doodle of a pink figure blew a bubblegum bubble. He chuckled. "How's Auror training going?"
Tonks sighed, her expression glum. "Awful. Failed the stealth section twice. Moody says he could spot me with his good eye closed."
"Which eye? Leaving the magical one isn't exactly fair."
"That's what I said!" Tonks nodded vigorously. "Then he stuck me with that pink toad for my rotation. Moody claims three months in Umbridge's office will get me through stealth training—Merlin help me."
Kingsley laughed. "He's not wrong. Your top priority for the next three months is staying off Umbridge's radar."
"Too late for that. I've got to report to her after this meeting."
Tonks flipped a page in her notebook, revealing a neat list of holiday incidents: Willy Widdershins enchanting a Muggle toilet seat, causing a Muggle's backside to be bitten in seven places; a batch of antique furniture in Knockturn Alley, suspected to be stolen by dark wizards…
Petty matters, but the last item caught Kingsley's eye: "Rita Skeeter reports: Visumirrors appearing in pubs, suspected to mimic Muggle devices, with potentially uncontrollable impacts…"
The ink looked fresh, likely added that morning. Kingsley leaned back, thoughtful.
Last night at the pub, he'd suspected Umbridge might seize on the Visumirror to stir trouble. Chatting with old Tom, he'd learned it was a Hogwarts professor's invention.
Given Dumbledore's involvement, Kingsley decided to give the professor a heads-up, planning to write to the headmaster later.
For now, he turned to the trainee. "Tonks, Umbridge hasn't been in her post long. Think she's fully taken over the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?"
"Ugh, I can't stand her, but honestly? She's running it decently."
"No, Tonks. If she had full control, it wouldn't be 'decent.' With her obsession for credit, her meddling would throw the whole department into chaos. Remember that tea set leak? She spread rumors that the wizarding world was on the brink of collapse…" Kingsley's voice was calm but firm. "Do you want her to keep doing that?"
"Of course not, Captain. What do I do?"
"Don't report anything inconclusive to her. Keep unverified news—like that article—out of her sight."
"What if she asks? Or demands to see it?"
"Remember your stealth training. To avoid being noticed, distract her with something shinier. Fill her schedule—reports, inspections, anything. She loves boasting about her achievements, so let her waste time schmoozing the Minister, pure-blood families, or reporters…"
Tonks, stunned by her captain's wisdom, scribbled notes furiously.
Is this Muggle political savvy?
Learned something new…
Hogwarts, too, resumed today.
Hermione was in her dorm, unpacking.
She'd changed into new pajamas and hung her spring and summer robes in the wardrobe. All that remained in her trunk were some candies and a few tubes of medicinal toothpaste—Christmas gifts for her roommates and professors. Her parents had said she should thank those who'd helped her make friends at her new school.
The twelve-year-old witch sighed.
The roommates were easy—she'd give them their gifts tonight.
But McGonagall and Professor Levent? How do you even give gifts to professors?
And who gives toothpaste as a present?
"Ugh…"
With mixed feelings, Hermione left the dorm and headed to the Great Hall for the welcome-back feast.
The Great Hall's Christmas trees had been moved to the courtyard, circling the frozen fountain. Holly branches and ribbons still adorned the ceiling and corridors, giving the school a sudden burst of life.
After a fairly long Christmas break, the students were buzzing with excitement, eagerly sharing holiday stories.
"My distant aunt from France visited us. Guess what? Even she knew Harry's name!"
"Why? How?"
"Because The Three Broomsticks was showing their match!"
"The Leaky Cauldron too—it made the front page! My dad and grandpa went every night to watch, and my gran gave them an earful for it."
"…"
At the head table, Melvin flipped through The Daily Prophet with interest. Rita Skeeter's article, while sensationalist, hit some key points. Though the unregistered Animagus lacked formal media training, her years of experience gave her a near-instinctive knack.
She might be useful for publicity someday, he thought.
As he pondered collaborating with the journalist, a group of older students—Quidditch players, led by Cedric Diggory—approached with cheerful grins. "Professor Levent, we're here to thank you."
"Oh? For what?" Melvin closed the newspaper.
"Thanks to your Visumirror, loads of team managers saw our match footage and sent tryout invitations," Cedric explained. "Me, Ravenclaw's Roger, Gryffindor's Captain Wood, and Slytherin's Flint…"
Flint, Slytherin's burly captain with protruding teeth and an intimidating look, forced a smile that was still a bit unnerving.
Though Slytherin lost to Gryffindor, Flint's aggressive, wild tactics caught the eye of an Argentine team, who saw him as a perfect fit for their "strangler" strategy and invited him to try out for their youth national team.
"We're all really grateful, Professor."
"Your skills did the talking."
Melvin chatted with them, advising them to focus on studies now and consider careers after graduation. He also snagged contact details for a few teams.
As the students returned to their house tables, Melvin glanced around. Hagrid was whispering with Professor Kettleburn, the other three house heads were laughing about new team brooms, Snape sat alone at the edge, and Quirrell was still absent.
Melvin looked up at the enchanted ceiling. It was dark and windy tonight—not great weather.
Dumbledore caught his concern and said, "No need to worry. I've spoken with the centaur elders and the unicorn leader. The centaurs will patrol the Forbidden Forest nightly, and the unicorns are safe."
"What about Quirrell?"
"We'll need Harry and his friends to speed up their investigation…"
Dumbledore paused, looking at Melvin earnestly. "They'll need a professor to subtly guide them. Who do you think is suitable?"
Melvin couldn't read his gaze and looked away, spotting three first-years at the Gryffindor table huddled together.
The young witch was frowning, clearly scolding the two boys for slacking off all holiday and finding no clues.
The other two, who'd stayed at school, looked sheepish but had no defense.
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