Stay exactly where you are, I tell her.The last thing we need is a human seeing a flying stake.
Tch. Spoilsport, she mutters, but the faint thrum of her magic settles.
The neighbours wander off, plotting letters instead of fire.
For now.
And it is not humans who worry me most.
A few days later, the Ministry of Magic arrives.
It is a weekday morning, low cloud pressing down, drizzle silvering the windows. I feel them before they reach the gate—a pair of magic users and a human officer, their signatures pricking at my wards like pins.
They pause outside to confer. The female mage consults a clipboard; the male peers up at my windows as though trying to meet my gaze.
“Property eight-seven-four,” the woman says. “No registered derivative. No confirmed human occupant. Utilities active. No compliance survey returned.”
The officer tugs at his cap. “Looks lived-in.” His eyes linger on my flowerbeds, the gleam of my brass knocker, the fresh paint on the door. “Bittootidy, if you want my opinion.”
Rude,Beryl mutters.
I let them through the outer ward and the wooden gate,then tighten the house wards a fraction—just enough that the air on the step grows heavier. They mount the front steps. The woman presses the doorbell.
I let it ring. Once. Twice.
“Try again,” the officer suggests.
Three. Four.
The male mage frowns. “Anyone registered here?”
“None on file.” She flips a page. “Therewasa warding service twenty years ago, but the company’s dissolved.”
She traces a sensing spell over the lintel; magic brushes me, probing. I bare metaphysical teeth and yield nothing.
“Hm. Strong static wards,” she says. “Old work. No response inside.”
The officer shifts. “Empty? Squatters? Garden service?”
“Or someone avoiding questions.” Now the mage’s voice is cool. “Under the Sector Alignment Act every derivative must register to the proper territory. If an unregistered magic user lives here, they may be dodging relocation.”
Relocation. Such a polite word for being hauled from one’s home.
He lifts a hand for a stronger spell.
If he tries cracking you like a safe, I am taking the wand arm,Beryl bristles.
Patience,I murmur.
Instead, I feed a pulse into the doorbell. It shrieks, sparks, and dies in a curl of smoke. All three jump back.
“Bloody hell—” the officer yelps.
“Residual magic discharge,” the woman snaps, scowling at her clipboard. “Great.” She glances at the mage. “Nowarrant. If we damage property without cause, the government will have our heads.”
“Could be some eccentric human,” he says. “Council tax paid?”
“Yes.”
