"Easy there, Bridge. Let me know how this sounds first." The quill shot over to its perch next to the ink pot, and Michael waved the tea away. It hovered in the air and then took roost on the parchment table. He stood up and walked to the door, clearing his throat as he held the letter out in front of him. "'Dear Alastor,'" he began, "'After being nearly killed by one Ernest P. Winkerspeal on the occasion of a simple, practically mindless raid in a suspected Death Eater home on the outskirts of London, I hereby demote him from the position of Junior Auror. To spare you the trouble of reassigning the boy, I have decided that he will henceforth use his exquisite penmanship skills to further the paperwork completion of myself and my direct subordinates. Never let it be said that Michael Potter and/or any of his beloved staff missed the all-important final raid due to an overabundance of paperwork. Signed, humbly and with all due respect, Michael E. Potter, Auror, Supervisor.'" He lowered the parchment. "I hope it's at least slightly pretentious. And it has to be by magic, because if I write by hand I spell my last name wrong." He spells it with five letters, staring with a B. "And don't worry. We'll install magical wards before the boy gets his hands on any kind of kettle."