Love Actually in the Potterverse

Chapter Two: A Bad Day at the Office

Fuck.

Across the other side of London, Lavender Brown was running horribly late for - to completely cap the whole thing off - her new job. She had set her alarm. She really had. But alarm clocks, like most other wizarding appliances, were highly temperamental, and hers had taken issue with a remark she had made about how it clashed with the rest of her appliances. She could hear it cackling as she struggled into her stiff black skirt and tore off a button on the matching shirt. "Oh, shut up," she told it, in her temper not caring that this lack of courtesy may result in a similar mad dash the following morning.

Muggle London was wet and drizzly that morning, as was its wont. The tip of her umbrella stabbed a hole in her new hosiery and she swore. Had she been in Hogsmeades, she could have cast a bubble around herself or at least made her clothes water resistant, but here such activities would have raised suspicion, if not alarm. She could feel water sloshing into her shoes, seeping between her toes. The wind had whipped her hair into a blond tangle on top of her head. So much for first appearances. Fuck.

She had finally approached her goal - an abandoned red telephone booth outside a department store. Except there was a problem. A Muggle was standing inside, shaking rain from her umbrella and fanning out her hair. Fuck. Lavender approached. Talking to Muggles always made her feel apprehensive. "Excuse me, but I need to use this phone," she said.

The woman gave her a cursory glance. "Oh, this ones bin out of service for years," she said. "I'm just shelterin' from the rain meself. There ain't room for one more," she added significantly.

"Well, I need to use the phone," Lavender said, pressing forward. She did not understand the term out of service and thought that the Muggle was messing with her head. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're wasting perfectly good booth space for someone who may really plan to do something useful with it. It's a matter of state emergency." Well, whether the Minister of Magic got a decent cup of tea or not was a matter of state emergency, she huffily justified to herself. If he didn't like his biscuits, he may just declare war on Bulgaria.

"You daft or what?" the woman barked back at her. "I just told yer, this phone booth ain't operational. What language do I 'ave ter use ter make yer understand, Japanese?"

"Well, since you don't even speak English properly, that would be quite an accomplishment," Lavender snapped. "Now get out of that phone booth or there will be consequences."

"Oh, what yer goin' ter do like?" the woman poo-pooed. "Break one of them nails on me?"

"With this a broken nail will be the least of your troubles," Lavender said, drawing her wand. "You are interfering with Ministry business and I won't have it."

The woman didn't know about witches and wizards and wands, but the stick had a dangerous-looking point and Lavender's eyes were gleaming maniacally. She backed slowly away.

Lavender waited until the woman had turned a corner, then raised the receiver, running her free hand through her damp hair. She would have loved to have cast a drying charm on it, but didn't want to draw too much attention to herself. "Ministry of Magic, how may I help you?" drawed a cool, feminine voice.

"Lavender Brown, tea lady to the Minister of Magic," Lavender responded, trying and almost succeeding in keeping the nerves out of her voice. "It's my first day at work." As was the Minister's. Somehow she knew which of them The Daily Prophet would be focusing on.

"Is that so?" The cool tone implied that it clearly wasn't interested. "And which department would you like to go to today?"

"Um, personal staff for the Minister of Magic, I suppose," Lavender responded dubiously. Shouldn't she know that without being told.

"That department does not exist," the voice told her. "Please select another."

"But I - look, I don't know which effing department I'm supposed to be in, alright?" Frustration finally leaked through. "Obviously I have to be a witch to know about this place, don't I, and if I am a Muggle then I'm no threat to you lot, so just let me in, alright?"

"Bad day at the office?" someone behind her asked sympathetically. Lavender turned to see a black man in his late thirties, looking very debonair and composed in a navy mac and beneath a tall umbrella.

"I'd be able to tell you if she'd let me into mine." Lavender directed a molten glare towards the mouthpiece, as if the anonymous witch could see her. With wizarding technology, one never knew. "Bureaucracies can be a right pain in the arse."

"That they can." A polite but distant smile crossed the man's lips. "Nevermind. Once you're already in one, the going's a lot smoother." Gently guiding her to one side, he raised the mouthpiece. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, Muggle Relations department, and guest, a Miss-" He raised one eyebrow inquiringly at her.

"-Lavender Brown, the Minister's personal staff," Lavender supplied.

"One moment please, Mister Shacklebolt and Miss Brown." A short while later two badges clunked into the slot reserved for spare change. Kingsley's hands brushed against hers as he gave her the smaller. Unlike hers, his fingertips felt warm and dry. "Please report to the front desk on the ground floor."

"The red tape can be a bit of a nightmare, but it's in place to protect what's inside the building," Kingsley explained half-apologetically as they walked through the main hall. "There's some very important documents and witches and wizards in here. So what is your role in the Minister's life? His personal assistant?"

"His tea lady," Lavender corrected, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. You had to start somewhere. They had stopped at the front desk and she handed her wand over to the wizard in the security uniform to be weighed. Kingsley kept his.

"And would I be able to get a chocolate biscuit from you sometime?" Either it was a bit of friendly teasing, or he was flirting with her.

"My chocolate biscuits are reserved strictly for the Minister," she smiled back at him. Nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirting, and Merlin knows she needed the pick-me-up.

"A good policy, that," he said, tipping an imaginary bowler hat at her. Lavender laughed but didn't encourage his attentions further. The last thing she needed in her life right now was another romantic complication. Or so her good friend Cho Chang kept on telling her. She gave Kingsley's departing back a regretful look. Cho had better be right.

* * * * *

"So how exactly is this school of yours set up, if you don't mind my asking?"

Caspian gave him a puzzled look. "Why would I mind you asking?"

"Well, er," Neville shifted in his chair, "it's just that most other Squibs I've met seem to see themselves as having a disability of some form and they're a bit touchy about it. Although you don't seem to be particularly dour about things. I mean, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be," Caspian said cheerfully. "My disability is what saved me from being raised a bloodthirsty pureblood maniac like my brother. Since they already had an heir, my birth parents didn't want a second child to begin with, but I think that had I been born with my full magical capabilities, I would have been treated not much differently to Draco. But with how it happened - my mother was taking potion and a Mediwitch once told her that may have been what caused it - I couldn't risk being found out and exposing the family to ridicule," his nose twitched in scorn, "and limiting my father's standing in our very select society. Apparently a Squib child casts aspersions on the purity of the blood, which is ridiculous because studies actually show that Squibs are more likely to occur within families who have been purebloods for centuries than those who have, say, a half-blood or Muggleborn somewhere within the last seven generations. They didn't kill me - even Lucius wasn't enough of a bastard to do that to his own flesh and blood - so they hid me in a dungeon for fifteen years."

Unlike most other people, Neville didn't interrupt the speaker with a barrage of questions. If there was one thing he was good at, it was listening, and it was not unusual for him to get his subject to reveal more than a motormouth like Hermione would.

Sure enough, Caspian was talking as if Neville wasn't present. "My mother was the only one who had time for me." A hint of fondness entered into his eyes. "She hid it because she was afraid of what would happen to her - and us - but my mother's views were a little more - accommodating - than my birth father's. When she was young, she was infatuated with his money and status and mistook her feelings to be for the man instead. By the time she realised the truth, she was bound by tradition and marriage and believed it was too late to escape. Draco had been led to believe that I had died during infancy. She was always fonder of me than him with me being raised as her own child and he being more my birth father's, and I think he sensed it. When he found out that I was still alive, my mother feared that he would kill me through jealousy and sought out Remus to help protect me. Remus gave her the strength to be true to her beliefs. In the end, as you know, she died for them." He swallowed. "But I don't want to talk about that."

"I understand," Neville said. "Believe me, I understand."

Caspian gave him a long look. "Yes, I think that you do," he said eventually.

"I'm sorry," Neville repeated.

"Again, don't be. My mother redeemed herself in her eyes and Remus is the best dad that I could ever wish for. I live a normal life given the circumstances. Due to the work of Headmistess McGonagall of Hogwarts and Headmaster Flitwick and Professor Granger-"

"Professor Potter," Neville corrected quietly.

"-Professor Potter, and all the other teachers, I go to school with others like myself and don't feel ashamed of what I am since everyone's the same as me. What people didn't see until recently, and what the late Headmaster Dumbledore had been saying for years, was that there was no magical ability required and nothing stopping us from studying most magical subjects except prejudice. We don't learn Transfiguration or Charms, obviously, and we don't have a Quidditch team since we can't fly, but we study Potions, Astronomy, Divination, History of Magic, Herbology - pretty much everything you don't need a wand to do."

"Possibly the most exciting thing is that I'm one of the subjects of a case study McGonagall is doing to see if Squibs can learn to become Amagi. Since it doesn't necessarily require a wand, she has a theory that if we can see Dementors, there may be a possibility that we could transform into animals. I don't seem to be making any progress, but McGongall says that it typically takes a year for even beginning signs to show and I shouldn't get discouraged. Flitwick also recommended that after school, I consider a career in making medicinal potions. Potions is my best subject. I'm second in class to Elizabeth Granger, Professor Potter's cousin."

"That's brilliant," Neville said. "I was always terrible in Potions myself, but I didn't do so badly in my OWLs and NEWTs. Maybe that was because I didn't have Snape's big greasy beak looming over my shoulder the whole time during the examinations." Caspian, who had been grinning widely, looked over Neville's shoulder at an approaching figure. His eyes widened and he frantically shook his head at his new friend, but the older boy was in a world of his own. "So I've gone from having a Slytherin terrorising me in class to another Slytherin terrorising me as my boss. My fortunes haven't-"

"Neville Longbottom, a word please," a voice cut in smoothly over his shoulder.

The hapless Neville turned to see who now loomed over his shoulder. His eyes widened. "Ah, yes, Ma'am, um, Belladonna. I'll be there right away." Caspian gave him a sympathetic look as he rose to his feet, but there was little he could do.

Belladonna Zabini's presence in the office had a dampening effect on its occupants. Those who had gossiping merrily over steaming mugs swung back into action, doing the best to appear industrious. Only her personal secretary, Pansy Parkinson, looked at ease. She smiled wolfishly at the two as they approached. "Nymphadora Tonk's agent on Floo for you, Signora. She's been holding for five minutes."

"Then she can hold for five more," Belladonna said abruptly, swinging into her office. "I have other matters to attend to." Neville managed to restrain himself from gulping audibly. Absently he wondered if the rumours about the seven husbands preceding her current were true. You're not fifteen anymore, he told himself. You were a member of the Order during the war. You're an Order of Merlin, Second Class recipient. You've lived just as much as she has and you're as much adult as she is-

"Neville," Belladonna spoke up in that measured, husky voice of hers, and Neville jumped. "Have a seat."

"Thank you, but I'd rather stand," Neville told him.

"Very well," Belladonna shrugged. "This shouldn't take very long. As you know, I am not one to mince words." Nerves bubbled in the pit of his stomach. "Tell me, Mister Longbottom, how long have you been working here?"

Oh god, Neville panicked. Here it comes. Less than seven weeks before Christmas, and I'm going to get fired. "One year, one hundred and twenty-nine days and ninety-seven minutes," he supplied. "Ma'am, if there's any aspect of my performance that you're not happy with-"

Belladonna cut him off with a wave of her hand. "On second thoughts, perhaps the problem is more lucrative than I thought. Approximately how long ago did you commence your studies at Hogwarts, Mister Longbottom?"

"Approximately thirteen years, sixty-eight days and seven hundred and fifty-one minutes ago," Neville said after a moment of thought. "Ma'am, I don't understand-"

"And at approximately what date did Miss Ginerva Weasley start?"

"Twelve years, sixty-eight days and eight hundred and two minutes ago. But Ma'am, I've always known Ginny to be a hard worker. She always-"

"Allow me to come to the point, Mister Longbottom," Belladonna said with a sort of calm impatience. "Exactly how long ago, in units of time, did you begin to nurture feelings for Miss Ginerva Weasley?"

"Twelve years, sixty-eight days and eight hundred and seventeen minutes ago," Neville responded with a sinking feeling. "How did you know?"

"The whole office knows," Belladonna assured him idly. Neville groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Even, I suspect, Ginerva. I personally find the whole affair beyond irritating. Watching you skulk around the office like a beaten dog bodes most ill with my breakfast, Mister Longbottom. You're a Gryffindor, are you not? The house that produces individuals who blindly fling themselves into quests regardless of the slim chance of success? How it is that you are incapable of reproducing your battle heroics in a significantly less intimidating arena?"

"I guess when it comes to affairs of the heart, we Gryffindors are as cowardly as all the other houses," Neville said. "So the whole office know? Even Ginny? Bloody Merlin." Belladonna rose one eyebrow at him. "Er, sorry, Ma'am."

"The office Christmas ball is in six weeks, Mister Longbottom," Belladona peered steadily at him. "I strongly recommend that you put yourself and the rest of us - particularly me - out of our misery and ask Ginerva for a dance or two. That is all. You may now depart."

The tone left no question to his being dismissed. Rising to his feet and nodding a farewell, Neville concluded what had to be his most bizarre conversation to date with Belladonna Zabini.

* * * * *

"Good-bye, London Bridge."

"Oh, dear god."

"Good-bye, Kensington Gardens."

"For the love of Merlin, please tell me that you are not actually going through with this ridiculous scheme."

"Good-bye, Buckingham Palace - oh, look what the Queens doing." Seamus Finnegan pressed his nose up against the window of Dean Thomas's car in a most unflattering manner. "Good-bye cute-redhead-on-the-street-corner. Street corner," he mused. "You don't suppose she's one of those, do you?"

"What, thinking of employing her services, are you? It wouldn't be the daftest idea you've ever had, which is saying a lot. And given that it is eleven o'clock in the morning and she's carrying a briefcase, I can assure you that she is definitely not "one of those"," Dean finished with stern finality. "Now stop fogging up my window. I only just got this cleaned last week."

"Alright, alright," Seamus huffed. "Blimey, mate, you nag as much as me old missus."

"Well, it's not wonder given what she was going out with," Dean sad sagely. "Even Mother bloody Theresa would start nagging after a couple of weeks with you."

"As if I would want to bang that old tart."

"Yeah, well since "that old tart" gave up her life for charity, I'd say she's a fair bit out of your league, mate," Dean told him. Seamus snorted. "And since she's been dead since 1997, I'm particularly glad that you don't want to "bang" her. Even you couldn't be desperate enough to resort to necrophilia - just relocating to an entirely different continent," he added scathingly.

"I'm not going to let anything you say bother me, because in two weeks time I am flying to the United States and I am going to get myself thorough bonked."

"You're thoroughly bonkers, that's what. And you're actually prepared to sacrifice Christmas with your family for this stupid idea?"

"Yep," Seamus sighed happily. "American birds love us English blokes. The accent drives 'em barmy."

"Seamus, you're Irish."

"Well, they ain't going to know the difference, ain't they?"

Had Dean not been driving, he would have buried his head in his hands.

"Besides, it's America," Seamus continued. "The land of opportunity. I can be whatever I want to be over there. So if I want to be a sexy, supershagged English stud, then I bloody well will be a sexy, supershagged English stud."

"American girls aren't stupid," Dean told him. "They'll see you for the dodgy git that you really are. You are not - nor will ever be - a sexy, supershagged English stud. You are a desperate, ugly, desperately ugly, unrefined, uncouth, rude, arrogant, obnoxious Irish arsehole of a chef who is sleeping on his best friend's sofa and who despite being male and able to cook still can't get laid to save his own mother's life. America will not be one big orgy after another. Instead you'll return home even more broke, miserable and alone than you were before."

"Well, that's charming," Seamus said. "Why are you my best friend?"

"That's what I spend every waking moment asking myself," Dean grumbled under his breath.

"I bet they have twins in America," Seamus continued dreamily. "Gorgeous, identical twins who look exactly like each other - and I bet they have far more of them over there than we do here. I reckon that over there, every other girl is a gorgeous, identical twin. Like those Olsens - now they're some way fit totty, those two. If I ever meet any identical twins like them, well, I'll tell you what. I promise I'll save the uglier one for you."

Dean groaned and lowered his head to the steering wheel. Seamus was definitely not ready for America. And he strongly suspected that America was even less ready for him.