Holes to Heaven

And there were so many fewer questions

when stars were still just the holes to heaven...

Elsie Bobbit was not in the best of moods as she slunk into her cubicle. She hadn't had time to iron her skirtsuit, leaving it creased in unnatural places. She'd dropped a dollop of Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover on her favourite pair of pumps (she had been attempting to shrink the ugly little bags under her eyes with Mooncalf tears, which had spilled onto her bathroom counter and dyed it purple), and they'd been bleached completely white.

So there she was, in her wrinkled skirt and her less-than-favourite shoes, the bags under her eyes only slightly lessened. Even her wild copper hair was falling apart ahead of schedule; it had gone to seed during the past couple of months as a result of the new responsibilities joining her already hefty workload. She was doing her best not to pout, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold her lips in a neutral line. It just wasn't like her to look so unkempt, and she could hardly stand it.

Nevertheless, there was nothing eye-catching about her; just another overworked businesswoman spending long, weary hours at an office for gold that effected only a faint satisfaction. There was nothing to suggest that she might be anything other than what she appeared to be. In fact, she had been practicing mediocrity for so long, it just about came naturally.

She watched with a slack face as a considerable stack of parchment suddenly filled not one, but both of her inboxes with an annoyingly quiet little pop; the sound was completely insubstantial to announce what she considered the lowest point of her life. Sucking it up, she reached up and slapped the top piece of parchment onto her desk, inking her quill as her eyes scanned the document.

NOTICE OF APPEAL

In the matter of

Draco Malfoy

Currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban:

APPEAL FROM REFEREE'S DECISION

Docket #43142394 17 July 1997

Notice is hereby given that a decision was reached in the

above referenced matter on the above date by the

complete body of the Wizengamot, Alpheus Flewelling presiding;

a copy of which is attached hereto and sets forth the

particulars in this matter.

The appellant alleges that an error in decision has been

made on the part of the referee and is appealing said

decision on the following grounds: suspicion of a biased verdict.

A corner of Elsie's mouth quirked at the name. Draco Malfoy. Now there was someone she hadn't though about for some time. He was due for his first appeal and it appeared he was feeling lucky, because Elsie couldn't think of a single Barrister in the entire Wizarding world that would dare take his case. He was among the few surviving Death Eaters, and it was much too soon for him to hope for so much as a scrap of mercy. Not from the public, and especially not from the Wizengamot. She expected Alpheus Flewelling would be of a similar mind.

She threw around the idea of simply denying the appeal, but imagined hurling Malfoy back into prison would be much more satisfying. The memory of darker days was still sharp and terrifying, and if Malfoy was around to be a scapegoat, then all the better. Inking her quill for a second time, she printed Malfoy's court date in a clear area at the bottom of the parchment.

MR. MALFOY WILL APPEAR BEFORE THE WIZENGAMOT ON

31 JULY 2003.

FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN A DENIED APPEAL.

She proceeded to sign her name beneath it and dropped the document into her outbox. 1 down, 948 to go.

It took her four hours to wade through her first inbox, which she was disgruntled to discover was mostly full of petty legal documents. Her fingers were cramping, her eyes were burning, and her bottom lip was sore from biting. Heaven knew how badly she needed a vacation.

But the prospect of lunch cheered her up. It was Wednesday, which meant someone was catering; her stomach stirred happily at the thought. She pointed her wand at the stack of papers in her outbox and banished them to the secretary.

Just as she was getting up, an unwelcome face peered around the corner, gripping the top of the cubicle wall and giving a little swagger as he spoke.

"Been working hard, Bobbit?"

It was Michael Kirke, Mr. Sexual Harassment himself. She gave him a withering glance as she pulled her blazer on.

"Don't we all," she returned, pulling her hair free from the neck of the blazer. She hoped he would decide to display a sudden burst of intelligence, and take the hint. But at the same time, she knew that was more unlikely than Malfoy getting off.

"Fancy a shag?" he asked through a slimy grin, taking a step into her cubicle and causing her to step back; it was a feeble attempt to communicate her disgust and disinterest. But needless to say, Kirke wasn't a real expert at subtle things like body language.

"If you're trying to get a rise out of me, you're barking up the wrong tree," Elsie replied with determined calm, choking down a scathing retort.

He shrugged, looking nonchalant. "Just thought you could do with good bonk."

Elsie swallowed hard and clenched her fists by her sides, indulging her desire to hit him by imagining it in her head. In her mind's eye, her hand came across his face with a clean crack. Her hand didn't even burn as she took immense satisfaction in the way his head flew to the side and how he staggered backwards in shock.

But knowing she'd never have the guts to follow through with it, she gritted her teeth as she smiled coldly at him. "There are more creative ways of trying to get yourself fired, Kirke," she said, pushing past him into the aisle. "This could get nasty."

He shrugged, looking annoyed that she hadn't reacted the way he had hoped. But instead of turning and walking away, he stayed put, watching her coolly.

A bit of her anger got away from her then, and she couldn't help but make some sort of threat. "I'm not messing around, you bloody git. Take your willie somewhere else, or I'll personally castrate you in your sleep."

A corner of his mouth quirked with a sick sort of satisfaction. "If I'd know you were such a frigid bitch I wouldn't have bothered."

"Yes, well see that you don't," Elsie finished lamely, pushing past him towards the lounge, refusing to look back at that self-important smirk she knew was still on his face. But no matter how high she held her head, she still felt totally defeated.

It wasn't exactly surprising; the way the day had started was a promise for worse things to come. And she certainly wasn't going to let Michael Kirke get to her. The man was a complete bastard, and he bloody well knew it. Loved it, even.

But she had lost her appetite by that point. She returned to her cubicle and extracted a handful of Fudged Snitches from her desk drawer. She opened the first before remembering to aim it into her mouth, so that she had to leap up to catch the little piece of chocolate before it fluttered away.

What kind of life was she living, where she had to chase her dessert down? It was all utterly ridiculous. She angrily put a second Snitch into her mouth, biting down on it hard before it could begin to fly around in her mouth. I've got to get out of here, she thought miserably, opening up a third struggling Snitch. But her luck had run out again; it was stale.