emperor.

16:22. Thirty minutes to go before he has to leave. Forty if he pushes it. Antonin blows on the top of his coffee mug, burns his tongue on the first sip and pulls a manila folder from an overhead shelf. A meeting hurriedly scheduled with a Russian minister, embers of Floo powder still glowing in the fireplace.

Perhaps he should let someone else deal with it.

Or, perhaps--

He considers the thought, fingers momentarily stilling from their uneven tapping on the rim of the mug. Thirty minutes is a rare reprieve from the bureaucratic nightmare, a nightmare likely only to get worse from this point on. Perhaps they’ll manage to elect Millicent without any trouble, but that’s still a month or two more of publicity and scheduling. And Antonin is buried in paperwork and publicity, he has little concentration to spare for outside affairs. But perhaps enough for this... minor issue. Perhaps only now.

He would not appreciate petty squabbles at this time. But if this is played the right way.

Soon, Antonin thinks, such little details will lose meaning. So perhaps his conclusion is predetermined, inevitable under the circumstances: isn’t it best to utilize an opening before it disappears?

He takes another scorching sip of coffee. And then he makes another cup.

Their knuckles rap on the door of Alecto’s office. There’s a cup of coffee in one hand as they enter. A second cup in the other. Setting one of the mugs on Alecto desk, pushing it towards her with a forefinger and thumb: “You look like you could use a break.”

(and there’s a certain attentiveness that lingers in the slight gestures, every motion carefully open. it’s a show of concern from a memory overlaid by dark stone floor and the oppressive grandeur of the lestrange manor. half noticeable compassion that stays its course as the days pass and the aftermath fades.)

(a lie, of course.)

They raise their coffee mug, test the silence before speaking. “If you’re up for it- I wanted to ask if you’d accompany me to Russia. Harold left a few untied strings. One of their Ministers wants a bit of an informal talk.”

date: december 24th, 1978; early afternoon location: MoM, Level B2, Rodolphus Lestrange’s Office availability: open to all

The concept of second chances was something particularly foreign to Rodolphus. A mistake, small as it might be, would inevitably be repeated if one didn’t suffer the consequences. He’d made that clear from the start. Every one of his employees knew what they were getting into when they signed their contracts, and yet, there were always those who seemed to think that following his rules was merely optional. And of course it was then left to him to replace them.

It was a pity, really. Alex, his latest personal assistant, had initially appeared to be a diligent, obedient person. Rodolphus would have thought he’d last longer and yet here he was, sitting behind his massive oak desk, a small pile of resumes in front of him. Presorted, of course. Jane, his secretary had seen to that. He had more important issues to see to. “You can send the next one through, Jane,” he called into the outer office, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Wretched migraines. He’d kill for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon right about now. Literally. Instead he called Jane back into the room again. “And have one of the interns get me a cup of tea. But not that dishwater they serve downstairs. I won’t have anything that’s not loose-leaf. Preferably Assam, a splash of lemon, no milk.”

At least Alex had always gotten that part right. Such a shame that he’d been tragically lacking in other departments.

When the door to his office opened again Rodolphus was halfway through his weekly report from  the auror office. (From what he could gather, he really ought to have a second look at their finances.) Holding up one finger to indicate that he was busy, his eyes never left the page. “Close the door quietly and take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute. Don’t touch anything.

Finishing the report was more a display of power than anything else. That, and he wanted to see how long his candidate could sit still without getting nervous. A while, it seemed, Rodolphus noted with a hint of satisfaction. Maybe this one wasn’t a complete simpleton.

Finally, Rodolphus looked up and folded his hands on the desk. His face did not betray his surprise. “Are you absolutely sure you’re here for the interview? If not, I suggest you make it quick. I’m on a tight schedule.”

What about tomorrow. There’ll be more tomorrow. What’s the Auror office been doing. The Prophet hasn’t stopped publishing articles yet, might last until next week, there’s no other major news. I’m going to take a break. We need to contact St. Mungos again. What do you think, Antonin? Wait, we can’t forget about the French ambassador. I’ll sort it out. Do we have the rest of the reports in? We’ll slot something in for this evening.

The door shuts behind Antonin with a soft click. The office is still. Wordlessly, Antonin finds a chair. There’s silence again, drifting peaceably over the space. The sound of their breathing. For a moment they focus on just that; breathing. And then on Rodolphus, their eyes abandoning examination of the familiar office to follow the furrow of his brow, the crease of the paper and the hands holding them. Knuckles loosely curled. So still the image could be a picture. He always seems so single-minded in his concentration. Eventually Rodolphus stirs, looks up- sees them. Antonin is still looking at him.

They blink. Their gaze flickers, afterimage breaking- eyes shifting to a shelf, the monochrome patterns of the wall, a picture frame?- before looking back. His mouth tugs up, just a little. “Regrettably not. Though I don’t think I’d mind being here for an interview.” An absent smile crosses Antonin’s face. It stops just beneath his eyes. “They do talk about how fast you run through PAs upstairs, I think there must be a betting pool. Perhaps I’d last a month or two.” A brief, rueful softening of tone. “But preferably a little longer.”