Alan smiled and nodded, his eyes scanning the Atrium. He noticed several wizards repeatedly peeking at the captured Death Eaters. Their expressions shifted drastically as they realized who had been caught; several immediately slipped into the fireplaces on the right side of the hall and vanished into the green flames.
Alan offered a cold, private smile. *So you've seen them, have you? Then move quickly. Don't make me wait too long.*
Meanwhile, Moody, oblivious to Alan's internal calculations, led him toward the elevators and began an enthusiastic tour of the building. "We're currently on the eighth level. Every floor above us houses a different department. Moving up, you have Games and Sports on the seventh, Transportation on the sixth, International Magical Cooperation on the fifth, Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on the fourth, and Accidents and Catastrophes on the third. Our stop is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on the second."
"If you truly plan to go into the alchemy business, remember to secure a certificate from International Magical Cooperation first," Moody reminded him kindly. "All trade in our world must comply with the International Magical Trade Standard Code. Anything else is considered smuggling, understand?"
"Understood," Alan nodded. "Is the process for starting a business here particularly complex?"
"Domestic trade is straightforward enough. Cross-border business is where the headache starts. It's meant to protect our own interests. Every Ministry has different regulations, and some are lax, but Britain is far too close to the Continent. We'd be overrun by overseas goods if we didn't keep a tight grip."
"Take magical carpets, for example. They're the standard flight equipment in many countries. They started getting popular here a few years back, but to protect our broom industry, we've strictly controlled their sale. You won't see them around much longer."
*Protectionism at its finest,* Alan thought. They were clearly terrified of trade deficits. The British Ministry seemed to favor a "one-size-fits-all" ban rather than healthy competition; he rarely saw quality foreign magical goods in London shops.
"Doesn't that lead to a massive smuggling market?" Alan asked curiously.
"More than just 'massive,'" Moody scowled, his magical eye spinning with resentment. "A large part of our work used to be coordinating with International Cooperation to combat the illegal flow of materials and creatures. Many of these 'businesses' involve the old pure-blood families, but we usually only catch the couriers. The big houses are too good at burying their tracks; evidence is a nightmare to find."
Alan felt the weight of the brass key in his pocket. It seemed the value of the ledgers in that vault was even greater than he had initially estimated. He subtly probed Moody for more details, and the veteran Auror, in a rare good mood, shared a wealth of insider information.
When they reached the second level, Moody led Alan to a comfortable VIP lounge. "Rest here for a while. I need to process these scum for detention."
Given Alan's earlier warning, Moody knew the political weight of these prisoners—especially Torquil Travers. The man had avoided a cell previously because of his brother on the Wizengamot, but being caught red-handed alongside known fugitives was a scandal the family couldn't bury. It didn't just tarnish their name; it threatened his brother's seat and gave Minister Bagnold the perfect opening to purge the remaining Death Eater sympathizers from the council.
Moody intended to guard Torquil personally. He didn't trust anyone else; he knew the Ministry was likely riddled with Travers informants or Death Eater plants.
"Get some sleep, lad. You look exhausted. I'll tell the staff not to disturb you. There's food and drink in the cabinet. Come find me at Auror Command once you've recovered, and I'll take you to meet Minister Bagnold."
"I appreciate it, Alastor," Alan said with a weary smile.
Once the door closed, Alan stretched his stiff limbs. The night of experimentation and the staged battle had pushed him to his limit. "But now is not the time for a nap." He checked his pocket watch and smirked. "The guests should be arriving any minute. I hope you lot don't keep me waiting."
He used a quick charm to tidy his appearance, poured himself a drink with extra ice, and settled onto the sofa. He waited in the silence, listening.
*Knock, knock, knock.*
Less than half an hour had passed. "Come in," Alan called out.
A woman in a vibrant pink uniform stepped into the lounge. She wore a smile that Alan found remarkably insincere—a sugary mask stretched over a hard, ambitious face.
"You must be Mr. Alan Wilson. I am Dolores Umbridge, Senior Secretary to the Wizengamot. It is a pleasure to meet such a brave young man." She spoke with a high-pitched, girlish affectation that didn't match the coldness in her eyes.
"The pleasure is mine," Alan replied, not bothering to stand. He took a slow sip of his drink and watched her.
"Oh, Alan... you don't mind if I call you Alan, do you?" Umbridge's smile faltered for a fraction of a second at his lack of etiquette, but she pressed on.
Alan raised an eyebrow but offered no verbal confirmation.
"Alan," she said, her voice dropping into a tone of mock-concern. "I'm here because I'm worried for you. I'm afraid you've gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble."