Mundungus's pupils slightly contracted.
He recognized this badge; it was the identification of a high-ranking member within the company, designed personally by William and infused with specific magical imprints, almost impossible to counterfeit.
He also had one, but it was a badge that only the main person in charge of a country—or even a continent—could possess. So, what could possibly cause a colleague of the same rank to appear here alone—decades of life at the bottom made Mundungus sense danger at this moment.
Fortunately, years of training had prevented him from "running away" at the first sight of danger like he used to.
"Prove it."
Mundungus was succinct, his right hand hidden under the counter still gripping his wand.
Badge or no badge, protocol is protocol, and staying vigilant in all circumstances was something the boss emphasized repeatedly.
The man didn't show any impatience either, raising the wand in his other hand and lightly tapped the badge. The next moment, a faint blue light flashed swiftly across the mutated "W.R" symbol resembling the "Warner" logo, as the man's voice reached Mundungus's ears.
"Farewell to White Emperor floating in colored clouds..."
"One day as husband and wife is worth a hundred days of grace!"
"Our own people, our own people—"
Seeing the incomprehensible code match, Mundungus's tense shoulders finally relaxed. He nodded and instructed, "Guard the door, don't let anyone in until we come out."
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher."
Once the subordinate stood by the door, Mundungus got up, walked around the counter, and bowed slightly at the side door, making a "please" gesture, "Come, let's talk inside."
Thus, the two entered the back room of the shop, passing through a Thief-Preventing Waterfall.
The space here clearly didn't match the scale of the building outside; the winding corridor was painted a light orange. They advanced silently along the corridor for quite some time, took three or four turns, and finally entered a hidden chamber, specifically reinforced to shatter any spying method at the entrance moment.
"Alright, it's safe enough here."
Mundungus closed the door, walked to the table, and sat down. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the table, clamped it in his mouth, and lit it after making sure the other party didn't mind. "Now," as smoke drifted upward, a beam of sunlight descended from the ceiling, "you can take it off."
The robed man nodded, raised his hand, and lifted the hood.
Underneath the hood was a weather-beaten face; the hair was dusty from the gaps making it somewhat gray, yet the iconic red was still recognizable—
His face was much darker and rougher than Mundungus remembered from the last meeting, with deep lines etched at the corners of the eyes, but the most startling was the sinister scar stretching from the corner of the mouth to behind the neck. The majority of the wound had scabbed over, but many spots still had fresh red flesh showing.
The only unchanged thing was probably those deep blue eyes.
"Char... Charlie? Charlie Weasley?"
Mundungus was somewhat surprised; he indeed didn't expect it to be him, someone he knew, the Magic Ministry official who once raided his home—Arthur Weasley's...which son was he again? That fellow was worse than a goblin at breeding. But undoubtedly, he didn't know this young fellow was working for the boss, even seeming to have reached a similar position as his—
He was the one who came first—he should have been.
"It's me, you know me?"
Charlie's voice was still hoarse, apparently not a disguise. He picked up the jug on the table and, disregarding finding a cup, guzzled several big mouthfuls directly from the spout, then sighed deeply and wiped his mouth with a not-so-clean sleeve, "...Where have we met?" He frowned, seemingly beginning to recall.
"No, actually I know your father—"
Mundungus scrutinized him up and down, frowning at his words, "Compared to that, your condition is more...you look like you've just rolled under a fire dragon's bottom, are you really...?" He gestured to his own chin, "Is everything alright there?"
"Uh, won't die from it, rolling under a fire dragon's bottom is much worse than this."
Charlie waved his hand, his raspy voice made Mundungus suspect the scar might have cut into his throat, the voice sounding like it was coming out a leaky windpipe, "There's more important matters, you...should know William's 'that' plan, right? He mentioned it to me..."
"...Of course."
Mundungus nodded blankly, despite not really understanding the plan back then.
"That's good, actually, I'm one of 'that' plan's African aspect leaders...maybe the only one now."
"...That serious?"
Mundungus's face sank, the wandering thoughts were instantly cleared from his mind, "What happened?"
"All several core nodes we set up around Sudan, Congo Basin, and East African Rift Valley were deliberately sabotaged."
"Sabotage?"
Mundungus paused for a moment, quickly inquiring, "Who did it? Local native Wizards? Or remnants of 'Poachers'?" As William's former top aide, he certainly knew the opposing forces his boss had, not to mention William sweeping the world to clear poachers like garbage lately, inviting retaliation seemed normal.
"I don't know."
Charlie shook his head, his gaze sharp, "If it were those poachers, we could handle it ourselves...so, hasn't this happened on your end?" Having just asked, he shook his head, denying himself, "Right, since William is stationed here, those guys probably wouldn't dare, or wouldn't reach over..."
Finishing, he didn't give Mundungus a chance to ask further but proceeded to reveal everything —
"It's a magical phenomenon I've never seen before, not in the boss's distributed employee handbook, it seemed like a potent wilting Magic Potion's effect, but it affected stones—the Magic Runes directly lost activity, the Magic Power conducting crystals turned into ordinary stones, the Magic core sustaining the base's operation looked as if it 'died' directly, the whole process occurred almost without any warning, everything was very silent, but this isn't the most troublesome part yet..."
"There's more?"
"Yes, we hired some African native Wizards to dilute our manpower to ensure they maintain an eight-hour work schedule—then, when that happened, all Wizards on duty at the time went mad—"