.

His smile or rather what he hoped was a smile and not a smirk. He truly didn’t want it to be a smirk but wishes and wants and something about what they said led Sirius to believe it would be a smirk. Whatever the curl of his lips was, as he leaned against the desk of the Junior Assistant to the Pest Advisory Board in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, was blinding. “Pixies. Cornish Pixies. They fall under your-” His hand flourished in a gesture to the tired eyes that could have been glaring at him if he thought less of himself. “Purview or department or whatever, don’t they?”

In a typical fashion, Sirius had no idea what his plan was outside of pushing his luck. It was what he was good at, talented in, skillfully overly blessed to have a predisposition at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and shoving his way to the front of the crowd with a big shout of Notice Me until he was listened to. Remus John Lupin would not be leaving this interaction without giving him the time of day. 

He picked up the name plate, declaring his old friend’s position here in Ministry department that also housed a certain affinity for those like Remus, and licked his thumb. Setting upon getting out a scuff that may or may not exist. 

gentlcs​:

WHO: The Spirit Division ( @lepouxinfernal / @ofphantasms / @scvrredhearts​ )

WHERE:  Team bonding night / Michael’s welcome party / The Three Sheets

WHEN: 17th October, 2008

“Sorry I’m late!”

Padma slid into an open seat setting down her bag and looking towards her coworkers. She’d made a stop between work and the team outing dropping some things off with Parv and making sure her sister was eating meals that included all five members of the food pyramid. It hadn’t been an excuse exactly but Padma couldn’t say she wasn’t looking forward to the few minutes it would knock out of the outing tonight. Their department was vast and diverse which often meant a lot of awkward small talk and arguing whenever all of them were forced to sit together and decide on anything like food, drinks, team bonding activities, where the cameras all went. She wasn’t sure who actually looked forward to things, though she was sure someone had to if they kept partaking in these outings. Or maybe someone just wanted them to all suffer together.

Not letting her hopes up, she ordered a drink and then turned to the people sitting closest to her. “Have I missed the karaoke yet?”

.

When Roger had begun his journey with the Spirit Division, he’d come to the conclusion very early on that the people who inevitably washed up into the department were very rarely team players. Fostering a workplace community had seemed to him like the best way to rectify this problem, or at least foster some sense of unity, and having met Bob, the ancient bearded “official” Head of Department, the conclusion had been that the only bonding activity he had a hope of enticing him into attending had been drinks or a communal nap time. After some early experimentation and determining that Bob’s reputation as a cuddler made the former an inappropriate team bonding activity, drinks had been the decisive winner — and thus a tradition was born. 

“We would never start karaoke without you,” Roger informed Padma dutifully as he turned from the bar to greet her. Three drinks deep and already showing signs that the alcohol was winning over chronic exhaustion he beamed, opening up his arms to envelope the nearest four bodies into an impromptu group hug. “I hope you’ve all come prepared this time. I’m not accepting ‘I don’t know the words’ as an excuse to get out of your turn.”

“Yes. We would never be allowed to start karaoke without you, Padma. It’d be a crime or so I was informed.” Work should end at five. Or, in the case of the Spirit Division, after your overnight eight hour shift of investigating homes and venues and the odd knight bus depot with a wildly overeager zealot boss named Roger. Draco shot Padma a look of pure exhaustion and gratefulness that he wasn’t the only one now subject to an intoxicated Davies. 

The glass in his hand shook widely, not spilling only thanks to years of hand-eye coordination drills as he was forced very much against his will into the arms of his co-worker and pressed far too close to Padma’s side than he ever wished to get. Elbowing his way out of the public displays of affection, Draco turned back to the bar with a tight set frame and a jaw locked from showing restraint so far in the evening. 

“Shots. I don’t care what you wanted, Patil. You’re doing shots with me or one of us will be the next case we take. Mark my words.”

WHO: @lepouxinfernal​​ / Ted Tonks  WHERE: Births, Deaths and Marriages, Administrative Registration Department, Level Two, Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London. WHEN: August, 1972

Journalism, as it turned out, wasn’t all tracking down sources, clandestine meetings and uncovering deep-rooted government conspiracies. There was, apparently, a great deal of waiting involved, in uncomfortable Ministry-standard chairs while Mae from records tried to pretend she wasn’t acknowledging your presence but would, eventually, slide a discrete folder across the desk because you had an arrangement. That was a big part of the job, he’d soon discovered. Knowing people in the right places.

There was also a surprisingly frequent amount of getting punched in the face. 

And so, Fabian waited, a days old Prophet turned to the half-filled in crossword in his hands and his foot jiggling absently where it was balanced carelessly across one knee. The mundane drift of progress as people approached the desk, categorising the sum of life and death and all the quiet joys in between on little certificates until, as Fabian pencilled in Scamander into a 7-Across, a familiar voice caught his ear.

He glanced up over the top of the newspaper, tapping his pen against his lower lip as the familiar voice met up with a familiar face in perfect, twattish harmony. That absolute twat.

Tossing the paper aside Fabian rose to his feet, meandering over to lean heavily against the doorframe that served as the only exit to wait. If Ted was so determined to avoid him he’d have to do it to his face this time. “I hope you know you’re a giant twat.”

Working in Radio shouldn’t lead one to spend so much time in the depths of the Ministry of Magic but Ted was learning (slowly, unwillingly) that being at the bottom of the job ladder meant time spent in the depths of the Ministry of Magic. He had somehow bumbled his way into the good graces of the Administrative Registration Department on Level Two. (Somehow meaning an easy-going smile and the gift of non-coffee cart coffee accompanying him on his trips to London.) Today, however, his business wasn’t related to fact-checking for the Wizarding Wireless Network News and the spring in his step wasn’t well hidden over that fact.

Mae was a witch he had never met before today (his usual Administrative Registration Department witch, Gleda, was nowhere to be seen and the soup he had brought her after hearing the cough on her during his last visit had now been claimed) but was turning out to be utterly delightful for a first time conversation, a talented conversationalist. “Dragon Pox? Bit serious, isn’t it? Did she say where she’s doing treatment or is getting a secondary opinion? You know Mungo’s just opened up an outlet in Wales if she’s not feeling up to traveling so far. Haven’t been there myself but we’ve been covering their first few weeks like mad and I haven’t heard a single story coming out of there about misdiagnosis like you hear from the main hospital.”

Fifteen minutes later, with his paperwork filed and a folder lighter, assurance Gleda was going to get a second opinion, and a new friend made, Ted backed up from the informational desk with a bright grin and a wide wave of goodbye. Only to turn straight into a man he had been pointedly avoiding like never before. 

WHO: Michael Corner ( @lepouxinfernal​ )

WHERE:  Michael’s desk, the Spirit Division

WHEN: 13th October, 2008

It was a bit odd working with Michael. Going to school with him had already been bad enough with the endless annoyance he’d been every time they came across each other. And even when they’d been working is separate departments he’d found a way to become an almost daily nuisance to her, it had gotten marginally worse when he’d been transferred. Most of Michael’s energy had been focused on the anger of being shoved into some background Department most had seen as a punishment, Padma not included, and therefore she’d given him a bit of space. His anger would fizzle out eventually, maybe, possibly. 

In the meantime she felt a bit of sympathy for Anthony and Terry who were certainly getting the brunt of his complaints. Maybe it was time for her to share the burden.

“You want to get lunch?” she asked, stopping by Michael’s desk and pulling a chair over. It felt nice to have a work friend she could depend on now. Sure everyone else in the department was nice but she’d never been exceptionally close to any of them or any of the unspeakables back in the Department of Mysteries. Of course she’d never let Michael know that his transfer had been something she’d enjoyed. “Unfortunately Anthony’s busy today so he canceled our plans and Parvati’s off somewhere with Lav. Guess that makes you third choice.”

His desk– what a fucking laugh. His section of free tabletop that wasn’t weirdly wet or cold or dim and dreary (only in that one seat, felt like you were perched on a sewing tomato) was set up in an extensive pocket quidditch match. Dennis was shit, not surprising, but at least he seemed to shut up when focused on the quick moving figurines flying between the stacks of papers someone was supposed to be filing or the empty mugs of coffee. He watched his tiny seeker, to scale because what the hell else good was pocket quidditch, race after Dennis’ with a squint. 

A glance up to the intern’s eye-line. Nothing. Not even a thought behind those dull blank eyes. Quickly back to the pitch. His seeker was flagging. Once more to check as his fingertips curled back behind the toy bludger in anticipation and– Bam!  The opposing seeker was taken out, down and down and smack dab onto the hard table’s wooden top while Michael’s seeker caught the snitch and he himself was standing up on his feet. Arms raised in joy and celebration like the match had meant something. It wasn’t until his arms were drawn tightly around Padma that he caught himself, in the midst of his first show of an emotion other than petulance down in the haunted dumps. “I’m always in first place.” Squeezing her tighter, he glanced down at her (and the cursed chair she occupied). Dennis’ pitiful and embarrassing show of loss forgotten in the face of Padma’s invitation. “Is this the day then? Told you it would happen. Just can’t believe you’re not giving me time to gussy fucking up for you. Tone woulda let me.” 

WHO: @lepouxinfernal​ / Draco Malfoy WHERE:  The Tuft Family Residence, Barnton, Cheshire. WHEN:  15th October, 2008

The soft crack of apparation disturbed the peace of the night, the crunch of gravel beneath boots tipping Roger’s head lazily up from his daze to enquire, politely, of the moonlight reflecting off of silver-blonde hair, “Alright, Malfoy?”

If the glow of his cigarette in the dark hadn’t given him away, the soft creaking of the swing Roger had perched upon to wait certainly had. The slow creep towards midnight only one of the many, time-swallowing events that made up Roger’s days and nights. Unlike so many of the day to day functions of the Spirit Department, investigations could rarely be carried out by daylight.

Roger sighed, leaning back into the swing and one last inhale of his cigarette, savouring it for a long moment before tossing it aside into the grass. The lazy sway of the swing was halted as he stepped upon the glowing butt, reaching down to hoist the satchel he had filled with provisions for the night ahead up into his arm as he lazily dropped back to his feet and eyed the respectable little townhouse, all stone and wood and home to a deeply restless spirit, towering over head. 

There had been no recorded deaths in the house for over fifty years, according to the Ministry’s records. Whatever this family had brought into their home, Roger doubted it would be a gentle separation. The spirits they were encountering of late seemed to be growing less and less amiable by the week.

Hence the back up — of sorts. At least it wasn’t Dennis.

“I hope you got some rest. I’ve got the feeling its going to be a long night.”

In other departments, Draco imagined there was order and structure. Mountains of paperwork, hills of bureaucracy, and political structures with hidden agendas. Every type of social warfare he had been raised to identify and manipulate, to wield as his own. For his, or the Malfoys at large’s, benefit. In the spirit division, there was Roger Davies. Not quite the head of department Draco had anticipated working underneath when he joined the only department of interest that would take him. 

His muted entrance was noticed. The kick of gravel crunching underneath his leather soled shoes, too pricey to be bought just from the poor government salary he was paid. As a man who used to arrive with all the flourish and dazzle the Malfoy name had once ushered in, Draco worked hard to contain himself these days. It was still present, sometimes, a certain draw towards dramatics. A flare up of angry or joy or any large emotion, years of pureblooded matches resulting in pureblooded children all the way down the family line to Draco himself, impossible to conceal. Being asked– no, begged to work the night shift wasn’t out of the ordinary. “Isn’t it always?” Why did Davies think it was such an inconvenience?

The only issue with this particular night shift was the lack of knowledge. He hated not knowing, walking blind into a situation much like he was walking down the drive to the door of the townhouse now. And with the way the afterlife had been carrying on as of late? It was unacceptable. 

Tuft home. A quarter to midnight.

WHO: Michael Corner @lepouxinfernal​ WHERE: Elevator, Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London. WHEN: 10 October, 2008

The cardboard box cradled ever-so-carefully in his arms was the most precious thing in the world to Roger, at that moment in time. It, like the many others like it that populated their over-crowded workspace, had been carefully, reverently, curated under his discerning eye, like a shattered vase gently glued back together, piece by piece. Eye-witness accounts and testimonies, newspaper clippings and duplicates of bookpages, all meticulously filed and stacked and labelled to form a greater picture that was currently serving as a nest for an empty, chipped mug in Caerphilly scarlet that declared him the, World’s Greatest Uncle. Roger nudged the button for Level Three with his elbow and shuffled over to lean back against the wall of the elevator, glancing sidelong over at the departments latest recruit.

Nobody ever seemed to take their entrance to the Spirit Division with particular grace (eager interns .. or intern, he supposed, since Dennis was the only one they’d ever had, notwithstanding). There was something about the persistent chill and flickering lights and the singular shiver that crawled up the back of your neck whenever you entered the office in the morning that people found off-putting. There had been a time when Roger would placate those fears with explanations about June, their most frequent escape artist, but he had found this did little to soothe his coworkers concerns about their new environment. Michael seemed even less pleased with his transfer than most.

“Alright?” he shifted the weight of the cardboard box tenderly in his arms and hummed absently beneath his breath, toe tapping erratically against the floor as the elevator whirred to life. “You catch the game on Saturday?”

Back tucked against the corner of the lift, arms crossed across his chest, Michael’s pout was prominent. The doom and gloom that surrounded him, lurking behind his eyes– the weight of his glower directed at one former quidditch captain he couldn’t peg. That wasn’t fucking Roger Prick Davies. Just like this– a transfer to the shittiest fucking department in the shittiest fucking ministry in the entire fucking world. Fuck England. Fuck this building full of backstabbing pricks.

Fuck Ludo Bagman. 

That cock-up of a department head was the reason he was in this fucking mess. Shoved off where he couldn’t muck up. The kid glove department of rejected losers and Michael Corner wasn’t a fucking loser. No matter what the assistant coach of Kenmare said. 

We Better Stock Up On Some Knowledge Here, Otherwise, We're Going To Get Murdered By Ghosts.