'There are muggle please men involved. And it's not as if you're doing anything urgent.'

'Just as soon as the Ministry clears me for active duty,' murmured Tonks, reassembling the file she'd been working on. She didn't bother pointing out that the word was 'police'. It was the affectation of a certain sort of pureblood to pretend to even less knowledge of the mundane world than they actually possessed. Palin was not an Auror but a glorified file clerk accorded a small amount of Authority and consequently a pain in the arse.

'You can just leave that until you get back,' said Saunders.

'That would be in breach of regulations,' replied Tonks. She had almost been caught that way before. Right at the moment she was 'Persona non Grata' with the Ministry and taking no chances.

The "Problem" was waiting impatiently by the lift, her cloak, decades out of date and made for someone smaller, gaping open to reveal muggle clothing beneath. As Tonks approached, she pulled it tighter around herself. In her youth , many years ago, she had been a large handsome woman. She retained her good posture and her intelligence, lighting her faded blue eyes.

'Miss Pasquil?' enquired Tonks. Pasquil, a synonym for Squib, had been one of the names chosen to give a sort of recognition to those sent out during a brief and well-intentioned attempt to secretly colonise the mundane world.

'Sylvia. Can we use the flue over there?' She indicated the large hearth, set off to one side of the Aurory.

'I'm sorry, authorised personnel only.'

Pasquil spun around to summon a lift. 'They'll be waking up soon,' she said.

'The police officers?' The lift opened, the old woman darted in and pressed the button for the atrium. Tonks slid in after her. 'Miss Pasquil?'

'Sylvia, please.' A twist of thin lips. 'Guess which house my family wanted for me before my letter didn't arrive and they sent me off to Muggledom.' Tonks gave her an enquiring look. 'Sylvia meaning 'of the wood' for the green and sounding like silver?'

Slytherin of course, thought Tonks, giving the old woman a rueful smile. 'I'm sorry,' she said.

'Don't be. You cannot conceive of the sheer joy that was a light switch. The school was used to little princesses in exile from odd corners of the empire: know nothings unable to do a damned thing for themselves. They were the ones who arranged for me to learn my trade. So many men were killed in the war, we couldn't all be expected to marry. The school assumed that I would go on to University but my family decided that I would learn bookbinding. So that I could have some sort of a place in the magical world. And renovate their libraries. For free of course.'

The lift arrived and Tonks joined the quick march towards the flues.

'Speedwell Lodge,' enunciated Sylvia, stepping through the flames. Tonks followed to find two of her majesty's finest sprawled senseless on a large and beautiful carpet almost entirely surrounded by and encroached upon by books. Apart from the electronic equipment, it reminded her of her parents' house.

'Aerosolised potion,' Sylvia explained, offering an old-fashioned perfume bottle in purple glass and silk. She checked her watch 'Maybe another ten minutes before Enervate will work. Twenty, if they're not disturbed. They have already been missing too long. Radio reception around here is a bit iffy, but if they've already been called and not answered, things could happen quite fast. Dispatch will know where they were going.'

Tonks looked at her.

'Television drama,' explained Sylvia. 'Might not be accurate. This one,' she pointed, 'could see that it wasn't just a woodshed out back. Tried to investigate and then noticed that the other one wasn't behaving rationally.' And then she shut up, just a little too abruptly.

Something she didn't want to talk about, thought Tonks. 'Is there anything, specifically, that they need to forget about?'

Eyes closed; Sylvia nodded once. 'The one who went out to investigate my workshop . . .'

'The woodshed?' Tonks clarified.

'Might have seen something.'

'Nasty?'

Sylvia winced.

'Bookbinding?' Tonks prompted.

'Perhaps you should sit down,' said Sylvia, sinking into a comfy chair. Tonks sat. 'Prices from about a hundred galleons for refurbishment. More to set in a new quire of parchment. During the late unpleasantness . . .'

'I beg your pardon?' said Tonks, nor understanding.

'The second world war. There was a shortage of materials. Anything edible tended to get eaten. I got into the way of going out after roadkill. You don't get a lot off a rabbit and there was competition for that. I'd just got home with a large fox when my parents arrived. Foxes tend to be a bit ripe even before they've spent all day dead in the sun. Mummy and Daddy were appalled. So, they made me what I call my 'Acquisitions Trolley'. Rune based. I charge it up just by pulling it along. When I find something, I drag it off the road to somewhere a bit out of the way. Rotating the grip on the handle strips off the skin and puts a notice-me-not on what's left. I get what I need and little hungry things still get their dinner.'

'Little hungry things?'

'Scavengers of all sorts. Gaia's cleaners. I'm especially fond of corvids. Such clever birds but safer off the road. Over the years, I came to dislike the idea of killing just to make things out of the bodies. I'm a vegetarian myself. I can offer you tea, if you like lemon?'

'Thank you but no,' said Tonks. 'I'm sorry, Miss Pasquil, but what you have just described . . .'

'Misuse of Muggle Artefacts?' Sylvia interrupted. 'Doesn't apply. Grandfather Rights plus Ship of Theseus. While I have had to replace bits occasionally, it is still essentially the same trolley. Also, it will self-destruct if I die or don't move it for more than three days. And it won't work unless whatever it was is dead. I've had to go back a few times because something was too fresh. And I'm careful not to be seen.'

'Then why are the police here?'

'General inquiries. There's been a spate of burglaries in the village.' She crossed and then uncrossed her arms. 'A while back, I hadn't realised the grip was loose, so I was towing the trolley charged, so to speak.'

'And someone saw . . . what, exactly?'

'No. That wasn't . . .' Tonks waited while Sylvia's hands, which she had hidden in the folds of her skirt, twisted around one another. 'The trolley is self-cleaning. I use it for my shopping.' There was a soft snore from the carpet and the old woman forced herself to go on. 'The road into town goes past the crematorium.'

Dead cat was what Tonks had been thinking. 'Human?' she queried.

'Two of them. Too much for the hidden compartment. They'd broken out of it. I had to throw away most of the sprouts I'd just bought. But when I thought about it . . . A lot of Muggles carry little cards . . .' She trailed off, probably cognisant of the magical view of Muggle medicine generally and, if they were aware of them, transplants in particular. 'I didn't think they'd mind,' she said. 'I'd quite like it: being a book. I go and sit in the little memorial garden at the back with the view of the cemetery. With all the trees, it's quite lovely there. When I hear the big fans cut in, I say a prayer and that's when I turn the grip. I get their names from the Order of Service. If they've asked for a donation to a particular charity, sometimes I'll send something.'

'Perhaps you should show me,' said Tonks.

The living room furniture had been all warm golds. The workshop was cold and white; the museum piece impression of the stretched skins augmented by the bookbinder's gentle handling. The finished products, which Tonks didn't want to touch, were admittedly beautiful to look at.

'Your customers? Do they know?'

'The sort of people who can afford my prices frequently prefer it.' Silvia picked up a slender volume covered in peacock blue and tooled with gold. 'Offers over seven hundred galleons. I currently have two offers of which I shall accept the lesser. Partly because the better bid can afford to pay for bespoke and will then be happier with her purchase. But mostly because I am concerned that the lower bid was particularly keen and may choose to look elsewhere, perhaps from someone less concerned regarding provenance. Heaven knows what will happen when I retire. It is not a crime to buy such a book. Nor do I think is it likely to be in the time that I have left. Speaking of which . . .'

The police were still sleeping. It was easy enough to send the one more affected by the wards to the toilet with the suggestion that a stomach upset had caused confusion and a longer than usual stay. A partial transfiguration was enough to convince the other, upon looking again, that the skins were particularly well executed film props. The business card that Tonks supplied to reinforce that idea had on it a minor charm and the number of a telephone at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

When the pair had departed, slightly embarrassed, clutching a box of home baked cake. The old woman turned to Tonks. 'Thank you, dear,' she sighed. 'I appreciate that you didn't just obliviate them. I'd hate for that to happen to me and at least I'd be able to guess why things had stopped making sense. Now, would you like some tea?'

'I'm fine. You do realise that there's going to be gossip.'

Sylvia smiled. 'They already think I'm a witch in the village.'

'Is that likely to be a problem?'

'Certainly not. This is the Century of the Fruitbat, after all.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Something from a book,' explained Sylvia. Tonks looked around at a former forest's worth of books. 'Don't you enjoy reading?'

'I don't often get the chance.'

'Here,' a colourful paperback was thrust towards the Auror who took it in self-defence. 'Some Muggle ideas about magic. You might find it educational.'

'I really don't . . .'

'Please. I can't buy any more until I get rid of some and people will keep giving them to me. I've got three copies of that so you'd be doing me a favour.' She'd started hunting through a bookcase. 'When you've finished with it, leave it somewhere it won't come to harm and someone else can find it. Maybe your colleagues would like some?'

Tonks took her book and fled.

The story is about human exceptionalism, the commodification of the planet and the arrogance and carelessness of the very rich.

It occurred to me to wonder where they got all the parchment. The muse suggested a mad cat lady living next to Cemetery with a small business. I realised I'd got it wrong once I knew her name.

To the Guest who left reviews 1 to 7: I'm sorry I don't understand. Why the names? Contracts and agreements?

If by 'harassing seniors' you mean that my portrayal of Sylvia was unsympathetic, that certainly wasn't intended.

A woman who values her own agency and independence (the light switch comment), Sylvia (of the wood) loves trees and she also loves books made out of trees and is well read. She mentions 'Gaia' rather than the 'Gaia Hypothesis as I was trying for naturalistic speech. She empathises with scavengers. The 'you don't get a lot off a rabbit' and 'competition' and that she took the whole fox, not just the skin suggests to me that, with wartime scarcity, she might have intended to try and eat it. A gentle soul, she's had a long and sometimes hard life. She probably does spend too much time alone.

The necessity for above explanation argues that I still have much to learn with regard to writing. Alternatively, are you posting in the right place?

I still want to know where they're getting all the parchment.