“Have we still got that big net?” Jules asked. He held the rim of his dusky brown wizard’s hat in his left hand, and tossed it gently, turning it like one might absentmindedly a hula hoop. The ankle of his right foot boot was propped up on his left knee, altogether a rather informal pose for being sat opposite his boss. Not the Big, Big Boss, but definitely the more important one in his eyes.

“I don’t want to subject Sunshine to a rinse and repeat,” he explained, referring to the dementor held in the labyrinth for some months now. Jules had dubbed it that rather than continue to call it ‘it’ or ‘dementor’ or ‘subject’. It was just funnier, wasn’t it? To call a face-sucking, soul-gobbling amortal thing the cheeriest nickname he could think of when he’d taken over the spectral reins from Alberic Grimm.

“I know, double standards and all, we’re keeping her in captivity, especially when happiness is endemic in the summer weather.” Not that one could much tell it was a British summer down here on Level Nine. “But I need to be able to reproduce the results, like.” He ruffled his scarecrow hair and grinned at his boss optimistically. “If we’re successful, I’ll need to design some vintage labels - Dementor, bottled in Cardiff, 2012.”