[Artemius Baxby]

It was ten thirty when Artemius Baxby arrived in the Atrium, the lingering taste of Arista's kisses on his lips. He was in a very good mood, and his head was buzzing with their ever so joyous activities, and the caffeine of a hot cuppa tea. A white tee was under a dark dress shirt and black slacks, as well as his decidedly not polished work boots as he stepped out of the guests entrance, his wool coat on his shoulders. He was early -- something not out of character for him -- and greeted his fellow guards with a smile.

"Ah, Baxby. What a wonderful thing to see," one of them said -- Geoff, his name was. A rather portly fellow, he reminded Artemius fondly of what he thought Watson might look like, only in security black rather than military olive or tan.

"You say the same thing every night," Artemius replied with a grin. "How do you know I won't show up an hour and a half early one night just to screw with your head, hmm?" he asked them with a mischeivous twinkle in his eye. "How go things?"

"Quiet, as usual," he replied. "Although, I could use a good pick me up, if you know what I mean..." He beamed winningly.

"Nice hot cuppa joe might help that, I think. 'Fraid I ain't got nuffin' to spike it wif, but it'll do." Artemius could feel a hint of a grimace in his grin. What was with the damn accent? Every time he talked to this fellow, he started talking cockney. It was a little bit disgusting, to be honest. "Lessen' a course, your wife has something waiting for you at home, incentive to have you hurry back into her doubtless gorgeous arms?"

Geoff laughed heartily. "Oh, you're horrid, Baxby, you really are. If she is, it's so she can give me a good tongue thrashin'." He chuckled. "Doesn't like me workin' this late, but she oughtn't complain when the check comes in. As it is, could you be a lad and fetch me a cup? I mean, we still have another half hour here..."

"Say no more. I'll be back in a bit. Two sugars?" Artemius remembered, holding up a hand to keep from the pleading, already stepping lightly toward the lift, up which was a coffee room waiting.

"You're a saviour!" he called back, as Artemius turned away.

Once in the lift, he sighed. He'd been here three weeks, and still, all he did was fetch coffee and watch walls. Arista made things a bit happier, but... life was rather pointless. I mean, the job is just boring. There's money coming in, but nowhere near enough for a cottage... He frowned as the financial burden decided to swim in his head again. Oh, bother bother bother... What was he into now?

The coffee room was deserted when he got there. He set up a cup and poured himself some coffee, peering into it before just taking a sip black. Eurgh. Disgusting. But he took another gulp. It wasn't a rum and cola, but it was still nasty. He made a face and poured a different cup, putting in the sugars for Geoff -- decidedly not two, but then, no one liked to advertise how much sugar they liked to add to their own concoctions. Although, he decided that really, that taste was too disgusting and refilled his own, this time adding some milk and sugar himself. Made it colder, but less bitter.

He had a strange habit of drinking nasty things. Almost like he didn't want to be happy. It was very strange... While he was pondering this strange turn of events -- months ago he'd been in the Cottage, thinking life couldn't be better. Now, he was in a own he was unfamiliar with and bearing the burden that his parents had tried to hide from him for so long. He sighed. Oh well. At least he'd try his best.

He took a sip of his coffee. And, you know, when it wasn't black, it was quite good. The sugar brought out a subtle taste of hazelnut. He was pondering this when he heard footsteps outside the hall...

[Patrick Everard]

Did the Ministry honestly think that imposing stricter regulations on foreign trade was going to help any of the turmoil that the country was in?

Of course it wasn't. Patrick could have told anyone that. Foreign trade was causing absolutely none of wizarding Britain's problems, and was even helping supply revenue for the repairs that were needed after all the raids that happened during the Week. The bureaucrats were just looking for something that they could do quickly and publicize extravagantly to make it look like they were doing something.

They weren't sitting idly by any means; all his sources pointed to some serious investigating being done, which was to be expected since the still green Minister Channing was a former Auror. Obviously his focus would be on investigating all the trouble, rather than covering it up like everyone else was usually concerned with. As long as Channing didn't pick up Patrick's scent, the young Irishman felt free to admire him for his work.

Patrick entered the Ministry that night looking frazzled, with his hair mussed and his clothes haphazard; the look he was going for was that of the young Games and Sports intern who'd gone home and almost fallen asleep before realizing that he'd left his unfinished report on attendance to professional Quidditch games on his desk, and he was due to give a presentation first thing tomorrow. He flashed his badge--the name read Tommy Stewart--at the security guards, who waved him on without much hesitation. He checked his watch. 10:40 p.m. It was almost time for a shift change.

He entered the lift and hit the button for Level Seven, but after a floor or two he stopped it and got out quickly before sending the lift back on its way to Games and Sports. He leaned against the wall. He would wait until it made it before calling it back and going to the place he really wanted: Level Five. He had two errands to run that night, but that was the more important one. The other was just a drop-off and something that he would do if he had time for it. He had a very brief window.

He heard footsteps coming down the hallway and immediately walked briskly in their direction, making no effort to quiet his own steps. The real key to conducting an undetected infiltration was to make sure everyone knew you were there. People rarely paid attention to the things that were right in front of their faces.

He didn't see anyone in the hallway as he continued down, but he noticed a sliver of light on the floor, which trailed back to a door that was slightly ajar. Patrick made a beeline for it, pushing the door open and finding something innocuous in the room to fix on immediately; he picked a coffee machine. Coffee! Wonderful! No one asked questions about a Ministry worker getting coffee. Patrick really could not have felt more pleased. He looked up and noticed the man standing there holding a cup of coffee. Another one sat before him on the counter. Patrick flashed him a small, slightly smile.

"'Lo," he said, his natural Irish accent carefully disguised as a British one. "I was hoping there'd still be coffee here! Of course, I suppose it's gone all stale, has it?"

[Artemius Baxby]

The footsteps seemed frazzled, harried, rushed. It made Artemius curious -- who was out and about at this time of night? An intern or workaholic doing some last minute paperwork, perhaps?

He was watching the door to see if he could spot the person as they went by, when they actually came in. The fellow was probably younger by a bit than Artemius, but not too much. The intern idea was probably good. Tall -- prolly 6'3", just topping him -- with lean muscle. Nothing to be scared of, but nothing to be taken lightly of, either. Odd how he judged men like that. Came from years with lycans, he supposed, but then, they were always a lot stronger than they looked. Bright blue eyes that glanced about nervously. He gave Artemius a small smile.

"'Lo," he greeted in a fake British accent. That, or an acquired one. He had a slight Irish lilt there, though -- Artemius had spent far too much time with Molly to mistake it. "I was hoping there'd still be coffee here! Of course, I suppose it's gone all stale, has it?" He was a bit nervous, too. But then, he was probably suffering from nerves -- thus the need for caffeine.

Artemius gave the kid a reassuring smirk. "Nah, it's actually not to bad. Not made too long ago. There's a witch what works all night up here -- she usually keeps this particular pot pretty fresh." It was the main reason Artemius came to this one. A mindless drone after a night of work, a freshly brewed pot of coffee was as attractive as the smell of fresh apple pie, cooling in the window. She'd caught him in here, once, and they'd had a rather pleasant chat -- he hadn't caught her name, though, and wasn't sure he'd given his, but she'd promised to look out for him and his fellows, so there was always fresh (enough) coffee here. "Help yourself." Artemius sipped at his drink, watching the fellow curiously. He wondered where he'd wandered in from...

[Patrick Everard]

"Nah, it's actually not to bad. Not made too long ago. There's a witch what works all night up here -- she usually keeps this particular pot pretty fresh. Help yourself."

"Ah, that's good to know. I'm normally not much of a coffee drinker--at least not without any Bailey's, you know. Mother's recipe," he added somewhat cheekily, "forgetting himself" before resuming his previous degree of discomfort. "Anyway, I'm in something of a pinch at the moment and to top it off, I'm damn knackered--so I figure it's the kind of occasion for coffee, yeah?"

Patrick added a small breath of a forced, awkward laugh and briefly reinforced the uncomfortable smile he was sporting. His eyes darted to the floor and back to the other man's face before turning away from him and towards the coffee pot and cabinets. There were several cupboards there, but Patrick reached immediately for the one directly above the coffee pot; as he'd suspected, that was where the mugs were. He allowed himself an internal blossom of satisfaction, as he always did at such minor acts of cleverness. Positive reinforcement and all that.

While he poured he pondered the look he'd received from the other man. Patrick read people quickly and he recognized patterns of behavior easily; his coffee companion had sized him up when he walked in. Interestingly enough, he had not seemed intimidated at all, simply curious. Clearly it was habit for him to mentally match himself against the people he met, but it was also clear that he was confident in his own physical strength as well.

Patrick respected that kind of self-assurance. He did the same thing. Upon his entry, he'd noticed that the other man was almost as tall as him, older but not by much, and had the kind of easy, natural strength that came from engaging in activities that required muscle rather than a work-out or strength-training regimen. He was a security guard, but Patrick knew for a fact that the Ministry security guards didn't get much in the way of natural exercise. Patrick found himself curious as to this man and his hobbies.

He turned around and took a sip of his black coffee. He grimaced slightly at the sharp taste but chuckled. He allowed himself to appear a little more at ease as he leaned against the counter.

"You're right, it's not so bad," he said, smiling more warmly now. "That's lucky. My name's Tommy Stewart, by the way," he added, holding out his hand for the other man to shake. His father's advice floated through his head again. Avoid detection by making yourself known to everyone you come across; if necessary, go out of your way to do so.

[Artemius Baxby]

"Ah, that's good to know. I'm normally not much of a coffee drinker--at least not without any Bailey's, you know. Mother's recipe," he added cheekily.

Artemius felt himself grin knowingly. Definitely Irish. Molly loved a good spiked drink herself.

The fellow was nervous again. "Anyway, I'm in something of a pinch at the moment and to top it off, I'm damn knackered--so I figure it's the kind of occasion for coffee, yeah?" He gave an awkward laugh that was a bit miserable to hear, and let slip an uncomfortable smile. Maybe he was shy? Artemius turned away as he sipped his drink, while the fellow scrambled to find a cup.

The fellow sipped at his coffee, and seemed to calm down a wee tad, leaning against the counter.

"You're right, it's not so bad," he said, smiling more warmly now. "That's lucky. My name's Tommy Stewart, by the way," he added, holding out his hand.

Artemius grinned. Good to see the caffeine was helping him out. "Artemius Baxby," he replied, taking it. He did seem considerably more at ease. "Wussa matter? Thought it was poisoned or something?" He laughed. "I mean, the war is over, isn't it?" He gave the fellow a grin. He'd always tried to use humour to lighten up a situation -- not every one appreciated that, though.

[Patrick Everard]

Patrick wondered what time it was. He kept himself on a very tight schedule when it came to matters of business and he didn't allow himself much time for such infiltrations as this. If it seemed like he was running out of time he was much more focused and there was a smaller margin of error to account for. He'd known colleagues who gave themselves a wide window of time to compensate for unforeseen circumstances, but Patrick had always thought that to be counterproductive. If one planned accordingly, there was no need to compensate.

He was faced with a dilemma here, though. Here was this man--Artemius Baxby--and Patrick was chatting easily with him. This in itself was not significant, because Patrick chatted easily with anyone, but Artemius was a security guard who, though sensing some degree of perception, had not shown any suspicion of Patrick thus far. Such a connection was a useful one; someone with access AND awareness, but not so much that an assumed identity was questioned? It was practically a dream for someone in Patrick's line of work.

So here was the question: stay and establish a possible contact, or try to make both his errands? Well, in order to determine the best option, Patrick needed just one piece of information: how helpful was Mr. Artemius Baxby willing to be?

"Baxby," Patrick repeated, smiling as he shook the other man's hand. "Pleasure." He gave a noncommittal shrug and a sheepish smile at Artemius's joke. Patrick hated jokes about any war, having been the victim of one, but Tommy didn't see what the big fuss was all about and had often been chided by his parents for not taking it seriously. "Sure it's over. You just never know with my boss. Well, she's not really my boss; only, she's a second-year intern and I'm just starting. She's got it in for me, mate. Wouldn't put it past 'er to sneak something into my drink.

"Take tonight. See, there's this meeting tomorrow about Quidditch attendance, yeah? Seein' if we're making enough money off wizarding spectators or if it'd be profitable to allow Muggles in, and I'm supposed to lead the presentation. This loony woman tells me at ten o'clock this morning that it's my chance to prove myself and that I'd better get everything together in time. Well, I haven't done anything on it--it was supposed to be hers! So I scramble all day, trying to get surveys and such done in mere hours, drawing up charts...blimey," Patrick said, shaking his head and taking a breath.

"Well, long story short, I left what I'd done on my desk. I wouldn't have remembered to come back for it, except she owled me (and is her owl ferocious!) twenty minutes ago to instruct me to give this--" he opened his jacket to show an envelope in the inside pocket, "--to Ms. Robards on Level Two. As if I have time to do that, getting this presentation together. Dunno if I even have access to that level; never been. She's always runnin' me on pointless, troublesome errands...ah, but I suppose that's an intern's life, yeah?" He shook his head again, laughing.

"Blimey, I'm sorry. Here I am talking your ear off when we've both got jobs to do!" Patrick said apologetically. He took a sip of his coffee, waiting for some kind of reaction.

((Haha, sorry for the obscene amount of dialogue there! Patrick's a talker. ))

[Artemius Baxby]

"Baxby," Patrick repeated, smiling as he shook Artemius' hand. "Pleasure."

Not a good response to the joke. Oh well. The war was a touchy thing to some -- his parents did a good job of keeping the Cottage off of the charts, and didn't really have a big problem with the Death Eaters, so many werewolves had ventured there for safe-keeping -- a full house was all he really remembered from those days.

"Sure it's over. You just never know with my boss. Well, she's not really my boss; only, she's a second-year intern and I'm just starting. She's got it in for me, mate. Wouldn't put it past 'er to sneak something into my drink."

Artemius chuckled. "Yeah, the people who work here can be kinda crazy." For instance, most of the aurors scared him -- he wasn't sure what would make one just AK him for the sake of being one step too close to them on a bad day -- and most people were insanely rude. It was as if common decency and manners in general were for the most part forgotten.

"Take tonight. See, there's this meeting tomorrow about Quidditch attendance, yeah? Seein' if we're making enough money off wizarding spectators or if it'd be profitable to allow Muggles in, and I'm supposed to lead the presentation."

Artemius cocked an eyebrow. Muggles at a Quidditch game? That just didn't sound like a good idea to him. Especially not if the Salem witch trials and magickless week were any kind of sign as to how Muggles took to the idea of wizards and witches in their midst.

"This loony woman tells me at ten o'clock this morning that it's my chance to prove myself and that I'd better get everything together in time. Well, I haven't done anything on it--it was supposed to be hers! So I scramble all day, trying to get surveys and such done in mere hours, drawing up charts...blimey," Patrick said, shaking his head and taking a breath.

Artemius gave the fellow a sympathetic grin. "Man, that sucks. That beauracracy -- stuff --" Artemius made a note to censor himself -- not something he was used to, but it was something he was learning to do with this job, although it tended to make him want to curse more than was even normal for him " -- can be a real handful." Mind, he'd never done one of those drone jobs. As it was, Artemius felt a little smug at being right about the intern thing. And, he was in the Quidditch department -- he didn't even have to ask. Inside, he smiled at the little success. A new friend, perhaps?

"Well, long story short, I left what I'd done on my desk. I wouldn't have remembered to come back for it, except she owled me (and is her owl ferocious!)" Artemius chuckled. " -- Twenty minutes ago to instruct me to give this--" he opened his jacket to show an envelope in the inside pocket, "--to Ms. Robards on Level Two. As if I have time to do that, getting this presentation together. Dunno if I even have access to that level; never been. She's always runnin' me on pointless, troublesome errands...ah, but I suppose that's an intern's life, yeah?" He shook his head again, laughing.

Artemius shrugged in a way he hoped was comforting. "I guess so." He knew what running on errands was like, having been a main hand at the Cottage and even the Den. In fact, he knew how much he'd always wished he always had a hand to help...

"Hey, I'm going to Level Two, when I check in in a bit -- I work graveyard shift," he added. "Security," he said, gesturing to the badge he already had pinned on his coat in case the guy hadn't noticed. In fact, the only thing missing at the moment was a punch in and a radio for him to be on the job. "If you want, I could drop it off for you." It was the very least he could do, seeing as the poor kid was so frazzled, and at least decent enough to stop for a conversation.

"Blimey, I'm sorry. Here I am talking your ear off when we've both got jobs to do!" Patrick said apologetically. He took a sip of his coffee, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Artemius grinned. "Nah, you're fine. I don't have to sign in for..." He glanced casually at his watch. "Another fifteen minutes. I get here early to screw with the guys on the evening shift." He beamed mischeivously.

((Nonsense. I enjoy dialogue. It gives me something to react to, . Baxby's a bit of a chatterbox himself.))

[Patrick Everard]

"Yeah, the people who work here can be kinda crazy."

Patrick responded with a good-natured chuckle and an enthusiastic nod. He'd impersonated countless occupations and honestly, they all said the same thing, but he believed that if there was anywhere that the saying was really true, it was Britain's Ministry of Magic. Patrick didn't particularly mind, though. After all, if the Ministry was run by a bunch of sane, hard-working, clever people, he probably wouldn't have nearly as much business.

"Man, that sucks. That bureaucracy -- stuff -- can be a real handful."

"Oh yeah, for sure, for sure. Total shite," Patrick said, lowering his voice on the curse and winking at Artemius. Who censored themselves anymore? Really. "There's so much red tape you have to go through to do anything, you know? I joined the Ministry because--well, let's face it, I wasn't good enough to be on a national team myself, so I figured I could be behind the scenes, do more for patrons and players, you know? Instead, I'm making coffee and runnin' errands." He shook his head.

"If the truth be told, I am grateful to finally get a chance with this presentation. I just don't want it to be my last because I didn't have time to prepare, you know?" he added.

"Hey, I'm going to Level Two, when I check in in a bit -- I work graveyard shift. Security. If you want, I could drop it off for you."

"Oh yeah!" Patrick said, gesturing at the badge he was flashed with his cup as if he was just noticing it. He grinned--sometimes it was just too easy--and took a drink. "That'd be real decent of you. I don't know my way around up there and if the truth be told I don't think I'd want to learn," he said with a chuckle. "I hear all kinds of stories...oh, but see, I've really got to go now. Blimey, I'm forgetting myself!" He shook his head and jumped away from the counter, reaching into his jacket for the envelope.

"But really, can you drop this off for me? I'm in your debt, mate, I really am. It was a real pleasure talking to you. How's about sometime we go out for a drink or something? Anyway, I hope I see you again," he said, smiling. He put the envelope on the table. "Thanks again, Baxby. See you later; don't give those old buzzards down there too much trouble!"

And with that he was out the door. He smirked to himself as he went back to the elevator, entered it and selected Level Five. It really was too easy; what luck to find such an obliging fellow! Really, Patrick hadn't saved any time by the conversation, but he felt that it was time well spent. He wished he'd met Baxby under a more versatile alias, but he'd find a way to work with it. He just had to make sure he made it out without running into the guard again.

[Artemius Baxby]

The fellow chuckled -- coming out of his shell. Artemius smiled to himself. He did have a gift for making others feel better, and it made him feel better, too.

"Oh yeah, for sure, for sure. Total shite." He gave Artemius a wink -- apparently he'd caught the censoring. Artemius laughed. "There's so much red tape you have to go through to do anything, you know? I joined the Ministry because--well, let's face it, I wasn't good enough to be on a national team myself, so I figured I could be behind the scenes, do more for patrons and players, you know? Instead, I'm making coffee and runnin' errands." He shook his head.

"Well, I'll sure you'll get a break one day, right?" He wasn't sure if that's how it worked, but one could hope.

"If the truth be told, I am grateful to finally get a chance with this presentation. I just don't want it to be my last because I didn't have time to prepare, you know?" he added.

"Yeah, I gotcha. The whole thing sounds like she's passing it off to you because she didn't have time to prepare it, but..." He grinned and shrugged. "A chance is a chance, right?" Even a fast ball is still a chance to bat, he thought, but decided against it. What were the odds that that made any sense to him?

"Oh yeah!" Patrick said, gesturing to the badge, just noticing it. Artemius grinned at his enthusiasm. "That'd be real decent of you. I don't know my way around up there and, if the truth be told, I don't think I'd want to learn," he said with a chuckle. "I hear all kinds of stories...oh, but see, I've really got to go now. Blimey, I'm forgetting myself!" He shook his head and jumped away from the counter, reaching into his jacket for the envelope.

Artemius smirked. The aurors were a bit creepy, it was true. Naturally, he wouldn't want to spend much time with them, himself...

"But really, can you drop this off for me? I'm in your debt, mate, I really am. It was a real pleasure talking to you. How's about sometime we go out for a drink or something? Anyway, I hope I see you again," he said, smiling. He put the envelope on the table. "Thanks again, Baxby. See you later; don't give those old buzzards down there too much trouble!"

Artemius chuckled. "It's nothing. Take care of yourself! And I'll have to take you up on that drink sometime!"

And then, the fellow was out the door, doubtless back to work or gone home. Artemius hoped it was the latter -- the bloke was rather frazzled, and a good night's sleep -- or spiked coffee -- would do nicely for him, it seemed. He heard the fellows steps outside, and then to the lift. Once it was gone, the hall was silent again.

Ah, the Ministry after dark. The whole place had a hum of magick, and although most of the magick performed here was hardly dark, there was a sinister undercurrent at work, but what did one expect in a government building? Far too many politicians and rats at work here. Not that by definition he thought politicians were scum, but for the most part, the only ones who had enough initiative to really take power like that were ones who were hungry for it, which was rarely a good thing.

As he sipped his coffee, Artemius looked to the package on the counter, and made his way to it in two lazy steps. It was labelled for Sofia Robards, Auror Department, but a quick glance showed nothing else. The label was sealed -- as expected with Auror things -- and he had to admit that he was slightly curious as to what the Quidditch department would be sending to the Auror department, but figured if it was true that there were mad witches and wizards trying to incorporate Muggles into Quidditch, that security against purist magickfolk might be adviseable. He shrugged, and placed the package under his arm.

He finished his own coffee and looked to Geoff's coffee. He smirked. Not very fresh anymore, but surely a bored security guard's standards were less than normal. He knew that from experience. Artemius looked about and saw no one up or down the hall, and had an urge to do something mischeivous with the coffee, but decided against it -- he had a night of work ahead of him, and Geoff could make that miserable for him. And being a Security guard, that could mean pretty much anything.

Tossing his own cup into the bin, he gathered Geoff's caramel brown coffee and made his own way to the lift. He called for it, then leaned against the wall as he waited, taking the package from under his arm to look it over again. The simplicity of it -- just a name and department -- seemed to scream something secret and cliqueish at him, if that was right, like there was something going on under his nose, and he had to admit that he was curious. Still, what harm could a Quidditch errand boy cause? Now, this Robards -- that was one to be wary of.

Finally, the lift arrived, and Artemius slipped in, pressing the button for 2nd floor -- a considerable wait, considering lifts, at any rate. He held the package loosely as he enjoyed the smell of the freshly brewed coffee, sickly as it was with far too much sugar for his tastes. He'd once accidentally sipped at Geoff's coffee when on a coffee run once, and it was something he didn't plan on doing again unless he was in a diabetic coma or something, or turned into a horse, but otherwise, no thank you. And, come to think of it, he was pretty sure it was salt, not sugar, horses liked...

Either way, the lift doors opened, and Artemius found himself on floor 2. Now this place, oddly enough, was still fairly busy. There was the light chatter and sounds of aurors still at the office, researching into the night on whatever badman they were chasing at any particular time. Artemius thought it had something to do with them being just downright creepy and scaring everyone off so that they had no other lives than this, but he was fairly certain that one could hope for an exception here or there. Had to be. There always was...

As it was, the secretary, on the other hand, was not going to stick around all night, and was no longer present when Artemius slipped into the Auror Department. So, he did a quick scan of her desk and found no decided inbox, so he was curious as to whether or not... He crept around the wall, and smiled. Ah, yes. They had mailboxes just like the security guards did. Mind... they actually had mail in their mailboxes. He looked for "Robards" -- skipping ahead to the last half -- and deposited the package where it belonged. He looked about, but no in the cubicles seemed to pay him much mind. Odd, he thought. He'd expected to be cornered and asked for credentials -- or perhaps they'd seen his credentials. He was wearing a badge, after all. But then, couldn't anyone just walk in here and put something in their box? He frowned. It all sounded like a really bad idea -- especially since he was coming from a Security perspective -- but he just left, and made his way to the Security office.

Inside, Neville -- another newbie, but one who had proven himself not so good with the physical altercations -- was trying not to fall asleep at the main desk, and jumped when Artemius came in.

"Good morning, sleepy head," he greeted.

Neville grumbled. "Whatever. You mean I'm getting a relief soon, right?"

Artemius looked at his clock. Less than a quarter til. "Pretty much. Do you have my orders for the night?"

Neville gave a grunt. "Yeah, you're relieving Picard on level 3."

Artemius grimaced. "Level 3? Really?" And then his eyes lit up. "You think I might see some Ashwinders on Level 3?"

Neville rolled his eyes. "There are no Ashwinders on Level 3," he replied, getting out a radio for him.

"Really? But I've heard there are! Ashwinders that creep along the floors in the dead of night, making sure that, even after hours, there is no peace for Level 3! It's the level of chaos!" He grinned, but Neville just gave him a look.

"There are no Ashwinders on Level 3," he said again, and gave Artemius the radio.

"Alright, Neville," he answered, taking his radio and clipping it onto his belt. "But, when I find them, I'm gonna ice me some Ashwinder eggs and make a fortune. And I don't share with nonbelievers!"

"There are no Ashwinders!" Neville called after him as he left the department snickering. Guards at the end of the shift were so much fun to mess with. They were either completely mad, or very grumpy, and both were equally amusing.

Artemius pulled out his radio as he made his way to the lift again. "Radio check," he said. One had to make sure one's radio was working, after all.

"It's a radio," came the tired reply. Female, too.

"Picard, I'm coming in to relieve you."

"Yay." Her lack of enthusiasm was more that she was tired than that she didn't want to go home. Artemius chuckled, then pushed the button again. "Hey, Geoff, do you want your diabetic coma now or later? I'm going for level 3."

"What the hell do you mean, 'now or later'? Where've you been for the last ten minutes? Get me my damn coffee!" Artemius laughed again. Ah, who said you couldn't be mischievous at work? He managed it rather well.

"Fine, fine. Don't have a coronary. I'm on my way. Picard, I'll be there in a bit."

"10-4."

Grinning, Artemius stepped into the lift, far too amused with his own night owl self.

[Patrick Everard]

Patrick hit STOP on the lift just before it reached Level Five. He opened the doors and slid down out of the lift onto the floor, a drop of probably two feet. He checked his watch as he landed. 11:47 p.m. He didn't pause once his feet hit the floor, but walked down the hall quickly.

His letter to Sofia Robards was from "M. Armand Beau Pre," (also known as Patrick Everard) a French (Irish) pureblood who would be traveling to England in a few weeks for an extended business trip. He was bringing with him three of his favorite paintings. He liked to keep them near him at all times; they were family heirlooms and there had been several attempts to steal them (one of which--Patrick's--had been successful). He was traveling by ferry across the Channel, and he was requesting that two, preferably three of Ms. Robards most skilled Aurors meet him on the English side and escort him to his suite in the Metropolitan Hotel (where Patrick would meet that evening with his buyer).

Patrick so loved doing things under the collective nose of authority.

But that letter only solved the immediate problem of getting the art deal closed. Patrick still needed to deal with getting the trade restriction proposal. He had been lucky to hear about it before it became talked of too widely; the girl he'd brought home last night worked as a secretary in Level Five and had come into the Head's office when he was discussing the plan with the leader of the committee that developed it. Their plan was to restrict all foreign trade except on commodities that couldn't be manufactured or harvested in Britain.

Normally, Patrick wouldn't have cared. He normally used Muggle import and export anyway, but therein laid the problem. If the Ministry restricted magical trade, everyone would have to use Muggle means, which meant that not only would the Ministry be watching Muggle lanes, but the Muggles themselves would begin to get suspicious and want to get their hands into the magical trade. He didn't even want to get into the repercussions of actually transporting some of those foreign items with Muggles around. It was just all around a bad plan and Patrick was going to see that the Ministry didn't kick themselves in their massive arse again.

He pulled on a pair of charmed leather gloves; they were clever things of his own devise that absorbed the magical residue left by his wand and left his presence virtually untraceable. He carefully disabled the relatively simple alarms on the Head's office--the problem with being so internationally cooperative was that they usually didn't remember to protect themselves thoroughly--and went to the desk. A bit of rifling later, Patrick had the proposal packet. He flipped it, laying it open on the desk, and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling from it a sealed plastic bag. In it were surveillance photos of the Head meeting with a well-known Russian crime boss and a letter from (Patrick) the same boss:

I highly suggest you rethink this new trade policy, comrade. I would hate to have to replace you after you have been so helpful to us in the past; and then how would we continue our business?

Patrick's time with Aleksandra hadn't been a waste. He'd discovered that the Head of International Cooperation had a rather a rather large debt to a Russian mob, incurred during his time as ambassador there. He had been paying it back for years, and in addition to the money the Russians required information on foreign leaders and their policies. The Head's information had led to at least one assassination and several threats. They didn't actually know about this proposed trade restriction yet, but Patrick felt sure that they would not be happy with it at all, which was why he hadn't hesitated to use them to stop it before they had to worry about it at all.

He put the bag into the packet and left it conspicuously on top of the desk. Russians were not subtle when they made threats. The Head was getting up there and Patrick was sure that if he wanted to live out the rest of his life in relative peace and security, he would "rethink" the proposal. Satisfied, he left the office, reactivated the alarms, and went back towards the lift. Instead of getting in, though, he slipped into a coat closet right next to it; the door was open with enough room so that he could slip through it with relative ease. He pulled the Time Turner out from under his shirt and gave it a quarter turn.

Once his surroundings settled again, he checked his watch. 11:45. He closed his eyes and waited for the two minutes to pass. When he heard the sound of the lift stopping and the doors grating open he opened his eyes and tensed. He heard the footsteps of his past self's landing and a second later, he slipped out of the closet and jumped into the lift. He closed the doors and hit the button for Level Seven. He didn't know if anyone monitored the lift's movements, but it never hurt to cover all possible bases, even if no one else thought of them.