Welcome to Exeter. It's a nice little town in Devonshire. It's existed for ages. Muggles wander up and down the town streets, sating their daily demands.

Bewitched behind enchantments, the Twelfth Auror Station hides. Here, wizarding law is enforced in Devon.

Inside, the local Aurors are hard at work. Quills write themselves, and the reports. One at a time, stacks of paper re-stack themselves atop one another. Cabinet drawers open on their own, receiving finished records.

Every now and then, the fire in the grate turns green. Pairs of aurors walk through, ferrying arrested wizards to the dungeons beneath the station.

Via vented windows in the vaults, interdepartmental fliers teleport just inside, and levitate/fly towards their intended recipients. They hover over certain aurors' desks...for as long as it takes for a desk auror to summon one, unfold it, and read it.

On platters near the desks, pastries appear. It seems the house-elves here sure make a lot of pastries...

In one of the dungeons, Karen Smith, a Muggle girl from Chicago, waits in a small cell, to be processed. Around her, dark wizards cast creepy looks at her. She shudders. Karen's been brought here, all the way from Chicago, on suspicions of having harbored Sirius Black/Padfoot, an alleged and notorious mass-murder, who once allegedly killed a dozen aurors with one curse, along with his old friend and classmate from Hogwarts, Peter Pettigrew/Wormtail...

Upstairs, there's a line before the wizards' toilet. The front of the line hammers against the door, hollering for Fish the Auror to hurry up, so that other aurors can use the loo.

In a cauldron, the coffee brews itself. Kingsley Shackelbolt, the auror in charge of this station, dips a goblet into the pot, and ladles himself up some of Chang the Auror's brew.

Dawlish sits near Shackelbolt, smoking a pipe. Shackelbolt smiles, as he acknowledges a wanted poster on a pillar, of Chang the Auror holding a pot of coffee. Apparently there's a bounty of 500 Galleons on his coffee's head...if his coffee had a head.

"I wouldn't necessarily call our coffee a crime," Shackelbolt remarks. "A shame, maybe..."

Dawlish doesn't seem to be listening. He's smoking a pipe.

Shackelbolt takes a long sip of Chang's brew. He soon wishes he hadn't.

"Ah, that's a crime," he grumbles, lumbering off.

Nick Chang works in a very small office. He's got photos of his daughter, Cho, here and there. She is very adorable. Soon, all the wrong boys will begin preying on her, at Hogwarts...if they aren't already.

From the vault, a banner for the Tutshill Tornadoes hang. They're his daughter's favorite Quidditch team.

In the corner, he keeps a stove burning. Soon, the coals in it turn green.

"Twelfth Station," Chang responds, "Chang." He listens to the caller, via the Floo network's new legilimency feature. "Hello, Mr. Weasley."

Chang studies his wall. He knows Mr. Weasley very well...better than he'd prefer, if he'd dare add. Their daughters have, and do, fight over the same boys.

On his wall, four such photos hang. One is of Ginny Weasley, wearing camouflage robes, and holding a sedated Harry Potter by the neck, as if he were a downed stag. (Funny she should compare...) Next to that, there's another photo of Cho doing the same thing to Harry. Below those photos, there's one of Ginny, clad in a blaze orange robe, holding a sedated Michael Corner by the neck, as if he was a downed stag. Next to that, there's a photo of Cho Chang doing the same thing.

Both girls smile brightly, in both photos. Both boys, who they've fought over, are barely conscious...or breathing...

"Missing car," Chang responds to Mr. Weasley's call. He waves his wand around, and bewitches a quill to take notes for him. "What kind of car, Mr. Weasley? Bewitched Ford Anglia; bewitched to fly."

Before him, the quill jots that down, only fetching more ink for its tip once.

"Describe the car please," Chang continues. The quill gets it all down. "Black fenders? Silver doors? Green hood? Polka-dotted seat covers? Monkey fur on the dash?!"

The quill stops quilling, and makes a confused posture.

"Mr. Weasley? Maybe your car wasn't stolen. Maybe it ran away! Mr. Weasley?"