It's All Politics
Sometimes Winky Crockett hated his job. Being the agent for a certain witch on the English national team had its perks, sure, but he swore none of the other agents had to put up with the shit he did. None of the other agents had their players die in a match, only for them to come around perfectly normal and, if possible, even more infuriating than usual. It wasn’t all her fault, of course. If the Minister wasn’t still insisting on keeping her out of public, he was sure it would have been Natalie herself standing beside Jack Lament, trying to convince the Director of Quidditch Operations to give her more World Cup tickets. And top notch tickets at that. The tickets Natalie had specifically requested were going for hundreds of Galleons at the moment.
“The players’ whims aren’t really a big concern of mine, Winky,” Jack said. He was slowly tossing a few Sickles into the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It was lunchtime, and workers were streaming all around them, talking and laughing during the one hour that was a bit more relaxed within the Ministry. The only Ministry worker who didn’t look relaxed was Jack Lament himself, who had been steadily accumulating more gray hair over the course of the national team’s run to the World Cup.
“Seamus Dawson is insisting England supply at least fifty percent of the Aurors for security at the Cup, or else it’ll ruin the Ministry’s relationship with Switzerland,” continued Jack. He flicked a Sickle into the fountain with a little too much force. The golden statues of the witch, wizard, and magical creatures seemed to glare down at them. “The second Seamus started weighing in on security, Ian Rowle decided nobody respected him anymore. Now he wants nothing to do with the World Cup, so he up and told Matt to do whatever he wants with his own Aurors, which pissed off half the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Matt committed the fifty percent, but apparently Finland is throwing a tantrum over having to match that — which, Seamus has told me at least twenty goddamn times, could ruin the Ministry’s relationship with Finland now.”
“Yeah,” said Crockett, fiddling with his hat in his hands and trying to sound like he gave a damn. “Sound’s bloody awful.”
Jack chucked another Sickle at the fountain. It bounced off the house-elf’s knee and landed in the water with a splash. “Nobody tells you how bloody political the job is before you take it.”
“Tell me about it,” said Crockett.
Jack shot him a look that implied he knew Winky did not care about any of this.
“What’s our star Seeker want now?”
Crockett tried not to wince. “More tickets.”
“Christ,” muttered Jack. He dumped the rest of the Sickles into the fountain and turned around to survey the groups of witches and wizards moving through the Atrium. “Players always think the most important thing they do is who they send tickets to. I’d know, I’ve been there myself.”
“So’ve I,” Crockett said with a smile.
Jack clicked his tongue, squinting around the Atrium. “Have you seen Harry?”
Harry Bagman was one of Jack’s support staff who had allegedly proven rather useful with the advent of the World Cup, despite his overly gregarious nature. Crockett had never seen him actually get any work done, he always seemed to be in a deep conversation with someone about something completely inane.
“No,” said Crockett, looking around himself now. Bagman’s bright blond hair then appeared out of one of the lifts. He was talking animatedly with whom Crockett recognized as one of the Rookwood brothers, possibly Augustus, as he and Bagman were good friends.
Jack furiously waved him down, attracting the attention of anyone walking by and drawing a few laughs, along with one or two shouts of “England wants the Cup!”
Bagman approached them, a broad smile visible under his bushy cossack mustache that he had managed to grow after Antonin Dolohov (rather nastily) told him that blonds couldn’t pull off impressive facial hair. Rookwood followed Bagman, looking intrigued.
“Harry, how many tickets do we have left?” asked Jack, then he glanced at Crockett. “I’m assuming she wants private box tickets?”
Crockett grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Bagman tugged on his blond mustache. “Pile’s dwindling quick, boss. Webster asked for another thirty — turns out he knows that many Veelas.”
Rookwood laughed at this. Bagman shot him a look and wiggled his eyebrows as though to confirm that this was a true story.
“Merlin’s ballsack,” mumbled Jack, running a hand through his hair. “The national team was a lot different when I played for England. We had less. . . characters.”
Crockett had to restrain an eye-roll, knowing Jack was quite a “character” in his own day. “Of course.”
“I’m guessing Malfoy wants more?” asked Bagman with a look at Crockett.
“She does.”
Bagman looked to Jack, a goofy grin on his face. “Are we gonna give em to her, boss?”
“I don’t fancy having even one Malfoy on my case about anything,” Jack sighed, staring at the strands of hair he accidentally tugged loose in his hand. He waved his hand towards the lifts, scattering the gray hairs. “So yes — get that squared away now before the Pottingers come in and ask for tickets for all their Irish in-laws.”
Bagman gave Jack a salute and beckoned Crockett to follow him. Rookwood tagged along, evidently with nothing better to do.
“Webster came in himself to get the extra tickets,” Bagman started telling him with a grin as they headed towards the lifts. “Did the rounds of the whole Ministry before. Zack Nott stumbled upon him in the Minister’s outer office. Apparently Webster was trying to convince Tiberius’s secretary — her name’s Selwyn, I think — that he’s the best shag this side of the Atlantic.”
Crockett recognized the names and laughed under his breath. “Did she agree?”
“I heard Nott wasn’t too happy about Webster trying to seduce his girlfriend right outside the Minister of Magic’s office,” Rookwood snickered. He called a lift for them and they stepped back to wait.
Bagman’s mustache quivered with laughter. “He wasn’t happy — Nott’s also friends with Malfoy, who has apparently told him that Ricky is a lying sack of shit — those words, exactly.”
Rookwood laughed. “Malfoy’s my favorite player on the team — talk about characters.”
“Speak for yourself,” grumbled Crockett with a shake of his head. A lift finally arrived and the doors opened. Crockett took one step inside the lift and a blinking red light burst into existence just above his left shoulder. Letting out a swear, he started jabbing at the 7 button for the Department of Magical Sports and Games, then at the door close button. The lift did not seem to want to respond.
“I take it that’s not a good sign,” said Rookwood. He leaned against the lift wall, looking at the red light with interest. “And the door close button doesn’t actually work. We just have it there to aggravate people when nothing happens after they push it.”
“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant, isn’t it? And no, it’s not a good sign,” snapped Crockett as Nobby Leach, who worked under Ian Rowle in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stepped into the lift. The doors finally closed behind him and Leach pressed the button for Level Two.
“What’s it mean?” Bagman asked as the lift started moving. He twirled his mustache around a finger and looked like his day had gotten ten times more exciting.
“It means someone is somewhere they shouldn’t be.”
Nobby Leach felt the need to involve himself in the conversation. He looked between the three others with intrigue. “Do you mean Natalie Malfoy? You’re her agent, right? I’ve heard the DMSG is trying to keep her on a tight leash.”
“It’s not. . . not really about her,” said Crockett, spinning his hat between his hands.
Leach stared at the red light and raised an eyebrow. “Looks like a Warning Charm.”
“It is,” admitted Crockett, shifting on his feet and slamming his hat onto his head. He did not feel like being interrogated by a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the moment. Leach must have sensed the tension in the elevator. He remained silent, though still looked curious. The lift finally clattered to Level 7 and the doors opened so slowly it was painful.
Crockett dashed out of the half-opened lift doors, Rookwood and Bagman on his heels as Leach called, “well, good luck then!”
Crockett hurtled through the main hallway of the Department of Magical Sports and Games towards the headquarters for the national team, almost knocking over Jeremy Algierson, the Pottingers’ cranky, elderly agent who (just like his players) was retiring as soon as the Quidditch World Cup ended.
“Watch it!” yelled Algierson as Crockett blew by, sending the stack of parchment Algierson carried everywhere. Rookwood and Bagman proceeded to step all over the parchment as they followed Crockett. “Blast you!”
“Sorry!” Crockett yelled; Algierson’s temper was the least of his problems as the red light continued to flash over his shoulder.
It seemed to take centuries before he skittered around the corner to his own office, nearly colliding with Matt Lament, the Head of the entire Department.
“Woah,” said Matt, looking between Winky and the red light. Then he glanced at Rookwood and Bagman behind him, his forehead wrinkling. “Everything alright?”
“Not sure,” gasped Crockett, “did you see anyone go into my office?”
Matt frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m coming from my own office. I’ve got a meeting with Seymour that I’m already late for.”
“Right, right,” said Crockett, Matt’s words flying in one ear and out the other. “You’d best be off then, and I’d best be on my way-” he hurriedly stepped around the Head of the Department and sprinted the last few steps to his office. The door was closed and locked, and showed no signs of having been tampered with.
He drew his wand, unlocked the door and stepped into his office, pointing his wand around in case an intruder was inside. But the office was empty. The red light of the Warning Charm that made him sprint there finally faded from above his shoulder.
Flinging his hat aside, Crockett lunged towards the locked drawer in his desk that held copies of all of Natalie’s contracts. It didn’t look like it had been touched, in spite of the activation of the Warning Charm he’d placed on it, to let him know if anyone attempted to break in.
“So. . . did someone get in here?” asked Bagman. He and Rookwood stood in the door of his office, eagerly glancing around as though expecting some monster to jump out of a corner. Bagman still curled his mustache around a finger and Rookwood looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Don’t know,” said Crockett, opening the drawer and shuffling through the contracts. They all looked to be in order. Breathing a sigh of relief, he dropped the contracts back into the drawer and slumped into his desk chair. Perhaps the Warning Charm had gone off accidentally. Studying the room and finding nothing suspicious, he grew more confident in this explanation. After all, his office was always locked, and only he, the Laments, and Natalie herself had access.
“Spell could’ve gone rogue or something,” Crockett explained, nodding to himself. He glanced over at Bagman and Rookwood, who obviously wanted to know more. “You never know with Malfoy,” he said, “always gotta stay on your toes.”
Rookwood slapped the door frame with amusement and laughed. “I told you. What a character. I’ve got to meet her.”
“Alright, Seymour, what do you have for me?” Matt Lament grinned as he strolled into his assistant’s office to find Seymour Mulciber up to his elbows in paperwork.
“Plenty,” said Mulciber, sounding like he hadn’t slept in days. The half dozen empty cups of coffee on the table behind his desk supported this assessment.
Matt took one of the seats in front of the desk and spread his arms. “Hit me.”
“Well, I’ve singled out the location for the teams to stay,” Mulciber shuffled through the piles of paper on his desk and pulled out a stack as thick as a man’s thigh. He held it out to Matt, who picked up only the top piece of parchment and glanced it over. “A medieval castle from the 1200s. It used to be used for Muggle tours before their war, but it’s sat empty for five years now.”
“Brilliant!” exclaimed Matt as Mulciber dropped the rest of the stack back onto the desk, sending papers slipping to the floor. “How big is it?”
“Enormous,” said Mulciber, ignoring the mess of papers as though he was completely desensitized to it all. “Though are you sure it’s the best idea to keep both teams in the same spot?”
Matt handed the single piece of parchment back to him. “Yes, trust me, the ICWQC is already having nightmares trying to figure out the logistics for the Final. If I present the option to keep both teams secure under one roof, they’ll eat it up.”
“Works out then,” said Mulciber, looking relieved.
“Exactly,” Matt nodded at all the stacks of parchment. “How much of what you dug up is important?”
“Most of it’s rubbish,” said Mulciber, pawing through the piles. “A lot of old Muggle tales about secret tunnels and sharks in the castle moat and ghost-sightings around the village. Hogwash, really — you know how Muggles are.”
“Well, I’m going to need you to sort through the hogwash rubbish and the important rubbish and get a full report of all details about this place on my desk. . . can you do it by lunch tomorrow?”
Mulciber looked at him blankly for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I can do it. Should I run a report to Rowle and the DMLE too?”
“Don’t bother,” said Matt, “Rowle’s given me the pick of whatever Aurors we’ll need for this, so it’s entirely in Department hands. The old codger wants nothing to do with the Cup Final.”
“Can’t blame him,” said Mulciber wearily.
Matt laughed, checked the time and stood up. “Oh, come on, Seymour, the Quidditch World Cup is the most exciting thing to happen in the wizarding world!”
“Yeah,” Mulciber looked at all the parchment on his desk. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
Abraxas Malfoy had been calmly sorting through Triple I’s records when his grandmother marched into the study at the Malfoy Manor, her devoted but incredibly overweight owl, Zeus, preening on her shoulder. Domitia flung a letter at him and then dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“I ask you!” she snapped, and Abraxas knew there was a tirade coming. “Not a single one of these dimwitted, miserable little cretins knows one thing about running a business! Do they know we source from all over the world? The world, good Lord, is an astonishingly large place! Do we need to remind them that it costsmoney to procure ingredients! We can’t just pull gillyweed and dragon’s blood out of thin air!”
“I know that, Grandmother,” said Abraxas, trying to soothe her so he could skim over the letter.
“Of course you do! No grandson of mine could ever be so astonishingly gormless!”
“I see this is from the top apothecaries in Russia,” he said slowly, eyeing the bold red header at the top of the parchment. “Or, the Soviet Union.”
“If you can call them that,” she shook her head in clear disdain, making Zeus nip at her thin white hair. “They’ve all been — what’s that word they adore — collectivized. I used to have tea with Olga Zhukov every year — her poor brother is a Squib but apparently has made a name for himself among the Muggles — Olga owned the finest apothecary in Saint Petersburg — of course, now they’ve gone and renamed the entire city Leningrad!”
“Olga Zhukov died ten years ago,” Abraxas reminded her.
“And a right shame that was! Olga never would have stood to allow her apothecary to fall into the hands of these — these wankers!”
Abraxas disguised his laughter with a cough, though Zeus the owl peered at him with enormous eyes before spinning his head around in a complete circle. His grandmother using slang curse words was always tremendously funny.
“So,” he returned to the substance of the letter. “They’re now offering twelve million Galleons, an increase from their previous offer of ten.”
“Which would just barely cover the cost of procuring what they’re asking for, and at those quantities, much less the transportation of it all,” she snapped and pulled out her wand. With a flick, a box of owl treats zoomed into her hand. Zeus immediately started hooting and flapping his wings as though he were in extreme agony.
Domitia began feeding the treats to the owl and he calmed. “Death-Caps, Erumpent Horns, Acromantula Venom — these aren’t exactly common, inexpensive ingredients they’re asking for.”
“Are we still in agreement with accepting nothing under twenty million?” asked Abraxas, leaning back in his chair to brood.
“Of course,” she said firmly. “That’s the minimum — we need to pay our own employees too, and need to make something of a profit from this.”
“What about the shortages here?” he asked, “Siberian Snowderglass is nearly non-existent in Britain. Our clients on the continent are also reporting diminished quantities.”
“Look at what they’re asking for, Abraxas,” she paused in feeding Zeus treats to point at the lengthy parchment. Zeus immediately began throwing a tantrum until she offered him another treat. “The shortages here are nothing compared to what they must be over there.”
“Which is why I think they’re getting desperate,” he said, eyeing the red logo on the parchment.
“Naturally,” she said coldly, “eventually they will have to agree to our terms. I can’t see it being much longer now.”
“But Gringotts still hasn’t granted them a loan, last we heard.”
“This is now coming from all the apothecaries in the Soviet Union, Abraxas, not just Russia,” Domitia said tersely. “I find it difficult to believe that together — collectively — they cannot produce the minimum sum we are asking for.”
Abraxas shrugged. “Mismanagement?”
“Rubbish,” said Domitia.
“They are desperate,” he said slowly, watching Zeus toss a treat into the air and then swallow it whole. “They’ve got the Eastern Bloc to worry about too — which I assume is why they’ve increased their offer now.”
“Slightly,” scoffed Domitia, patting the owl’s head. He crooned contentedly, nearly stuffed with treats. “Don’t worry, dear. They’ll come to their senses soon enough.”