the word of the year [elias]

Michael shared his cubicle with Clarence Haggard; they got on very well on basis of mutually assured destruction. They had attempted at first to split the cubicle down the center, but it was too small for that to be comfortable, so Michael kept quiet about the tequila Clarence pretended not to have in the filing cabinet, and Clarence put up with the chalkboard on which Michael was painstakingly keeping track of the Quidditch standings.

Unsurprisingly, Clarence wasn’t in his office; Michael ushered Elias in before him. “I’ll get you clocked out in a mo’,” he said, “Just let me get some things put away. Besides --” Elias had been a Slytherin, according to the department head, which gave him the sense that some selfish insubordination wouldn’t go amiss here -- “The longer this takes, the more you get paid.”

First order of business: he’d paid back most of Level Four (half of the Pest Advisory Board was out with the Dragon Pox), so he got the Quidditch ledger he was pretending not to have in the filing cabinet, balancing it on the pulled-out drawer, and went down the list, crossing through names. “Just some recordkeeping,” he said apologetically, which was technically not untrue.

They also needed to buy more Mrs. Skower’s -- there had been two spills that afternoon -- so he stooped over his desk and scrawled out a note to leave on the inventory desk, flapped it to let the ink dry. “Don’t worry about the mailmen,” he added, straightening up again and gathering his things -- wand, briefcase, jacket -- and clutching them under his arm, so as not to crease the parchment. “It’s not anything personal, they’re just like that. Did anybody show you how to send memos?”

@Elias Deyer

Elias' shoulders slumped as he sat in the vacant chair of Michael's deskmate, Clarence, a man of questionable sobriety that Elias met briefly earlier that day. Michael was fiddling with papers on his desk, then pulled out a ledger from the filing cabinet at his desk. Michael had mentioned record keeping and he saw invoices stacked on the desk.

"I guess I haven't actually asked you what you do here." He admitted to the room, albeit sheepishly. Michael looked like he was doing more accounting than actual cleaning, but he supposed making sense of scraps of paper can also be considered magical maintenance. He might as well make conversation, after all, he was getting paid for this, and the longer Michael was prevented from clocking him out, the more the new ministry employee got paid.

"I actually used to go to school with those two knuckleheads, we shared a dorm for a time because of the aftermath of the dome." He explained a little bit of what went on to make Elias hesitant to work with them again. "But I suppose we aren't even in the same section of the department. Their office is on the opposite end of ours, if you can call it an office."

He shook his head when Michael asked him if he knew how to send memos. "I think I was supposed to learn it from the chuckleheads in the mailroom, but alas they decided to do everything but that." The blonde said flatly, shaking his head. "So, Michael, how does it feel to be in the Corner Office?"

He tried to change the subject with the joke, not wanting to speak about Jeremy or Danny anymore that day. "We going to the cafeteria? Incidentally I haven't brought lunch, and it's pretty rainy out in the muggle world, so it might be our best bet." In truth, his mother tried to make his lunch that morning which he flatly declined. He knew it was a pride thing and couldn't bring himself to accept lunch from her. His father would probably have words when they went home that evening.

@Michael Corner

Michael shot a look over his shoulder as Elias addressed him -- what did he do here? -- and waved one hand vaguely, thinking about what it was he did most days. “I do weather charms,” he said, which was his official capacity and the reason for his terrible work schedule, “but most of the time I’m just on-call for the fourth level, I just do whatever comes up. A few weeks ago they had all those streelers oozing around Conference Room Four -- did you see that in the Prophet? -- the mess was unreal. But most of the time it’s just, you know, explosions and spills and what have you.” He hid the ledger behind Clarence’s tequila and locked the cabinet again.

“Ah, right,” he said -- his sisters had been twelve and thirteen the year the dome had enclosed Hogwarts. “Well, in that case… it might be personal.”

He grimaced at Elias’s optimism, though -- “You’ll see a lot of them, I’m afraid,” he said, “Let’s just hope you don’t wind up on call on Level One.” The chances of that were slim anyway -- no eighteen-year-old greenhorn was likely to be slotted to clean Shacklebolt’s office.

“I’ll show you, then,” said Michael; he quirked his lips into a grin (he didn’t remember the last time he’d heard the word chuckleheads but he was sorry it’d been so long) and straightened his quills on the desk, flattened the parchment and gave it a tap with his wand. “Spell’s Publivolando,” he said, and it creased itself into an aeroplane and whizzed away. He pocketed his wand and smoothed down the front of his robes, gestured for Elias to lead the way out of the office.

“Hah,” he said -- never heard that one before -- “I dunno, I wish it had a door.”

“Why wouldn’t you bring lunch?” said Michael; he grinned sideways at Elias. “But the cafeteria’s not too bad,” he allowed, “I’ll buy you a sandwich or summat.” He switched his briefcase to his other hand and headed toward the lifts -- “So do you have an innate passion for cleaning, or are you a temp?”

He nodded along with Michael explaining what he did at the Ministry. Magical Maintenance seemed to have a nebulous reach and capacity within the Ministry, so naturally it'd be very hard to pinpoint the exact duties they did besides charming the sky. He sighed as Michael confirmed what he already knew; the Dynamic Disasters were just naturally like that all the time. He slumped further into his seat as Michael said that he'd be seeing a lot of them. "Well, it was either this or be accused of nepotism by certain people."

He watched as Michael showed him the spell for the memos. It was a fairly easy movement with quite a quick release, probably because they needed to be made in moments. The incantation, however, was surprisingly hard to pronounce, so he had to say it a few times out loud to really get it down. He was glad that Michael humored him with a pity laugh, he probably got it all the time.

"Yeah, it'a pain when most, if not all of the ministry is below ground. I mean, I guess I'm used to the dungeons so it's fine for me." He said, thinking now, how his dungeon living in some ways prepared him for working essentially in an even deeper dungeon. When Michael asked why he didn't have lunch he offered a half-hearted shrug. He shook his head when he offered to pay for his lunch.

"Ah, no got a few hundred galleons saved up from working at the Ravenwood Quidditch Emporium with my best mate Seph." he grinned as he thought back to working there, and the deep discount he'd gotten on broom polish. He looked back at Michael as they walked towards the lifts to the Cafeteria. "The short elevator version is that I'm not a big fan of nepotism and wanted to get a job on my own merits, and work my way up."

"What about you? Do you love swabbing the deck, and huffing Mrs. Skower's for hours on end?" He questioned Michael playfully as the lifts ascended towards the atrium. "I'd think theres something you'd like to do here more than be a small fish in a big pond."

It was either this or be accused of nepotism -- Michael grinned. “Man, half the Ministry’s where they are because of nepotism, nothing to be ashamed of.” It was interesting, though, that Elias thought otherwise. Sort of Gryffindoresque; he could respect that. Michael had always leaned more resourceful than principled. The thought was bitter in the back of his throat.

“It’s all of the Ministry’s underground,” he said, unable to resist knowing something someone else didn’t; “Well, the Owlery’s got a vent up to the surface.” He was the other way around -- the Ministry made him a little claustrophobic. Even though he knew the views through the windows were just charms -- even though he charmed them himself, on the fourth floor -- he couldn’t help feeling more at ease when he was near them. Sometimes he could forget that they were so far underground; now that Elias had brought it up, he couldn’t think of anything else. He’d hated the Hogwarts dungeons even before he’d had reason to.

“I was in Ravenclaw,” he said, when he realised he’d gone too long without responding; “Being underground all the time took me a lot of getting used to.”

He supposed he must have insulted Elias, offering to pay for his lunch. Elias went on the defensive -- something something a few hundred galleons -- so Michael rolled his eyes and let it go. Not a fan of nepotism -- even though he’d figured that out already, it amused him again to hear. In Magical Maintenance there wasn’t really anywhere to go, other than more advanced Magical Maintenance. “Best of luck,” he said, grinning.

God, Michael hoped he didn’t give Elias the impression that he huffed Mrs. Skower’s. Were his eyes red? He’d slept poorly; they probably were. “I don’t love it,” he said honestly, “But I don’t mind it for the time being.” Vaguely, distantly, he expected to leave -- this job, this department, preferably the entire Ministry -- but he didn’t know what for, and couldn’t do it ‘til he did.

"I mean you're not wrong, there are entire families who work together on one floor. You know Morris from the Obliviator office?" He'd just been there that morning, and learned this tidbit this morning, trying to add to the conversation, "His wife works in the Muggle Liaison department, and he has a daughter that just started as an intern in the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad." he said as the lifts opened up into the Atrium area. He looked up briefly at the expansive high ceilings, and the Fountain of Magical Brethren, before stepping out of the elevator. He narrowed his eyes to Michael correcting him, in typical Ravenclaw fashion. He wasn't surprised if 'um, actually' was one of the older man's oft heard phrases.

"Well, thank you," he offered to Michael with a curt smile, knowing full-well that he meant that sarcastically. "I hope that you'll be teaching me all the tips and tricks of the trade, so I can be the best Magical Maintenance employee Reg has ever had." he said, a smirk on his face that told Michael he was only half-serious about what he was saying. "Alternatively, we could just gossip about employees and sit at our desks, sipping our 'apple juice'," he used air-quotes as he said this, "and just hope against hope we don't get called to clean up boardroom three in the DftRaCoMC." He knew that was the room they used for the meetings with all manner of magical beings, it had in recent memory been needing a member of maintenance over 20 times.

He expected as much when Michael told him he didn't love it. It seemed no one honestly wanted to be in the department. It was a means to and end for most of them, except for maybe old Reg. He heard that the ol' Head of Department still cleaned on weekends when staff numbers were low. "I don't intend to stay here for very long, but I'm not against cleaning up after people if it means I'll be using at least half the skills I learned at Hogwarts." He said as they walked into the entrance to the canteen, where all manner of folk were milling about. He looked around for his father, and thankfully didn't see him on a cursory glance, though he saw some guys he knew worked for his dad.

Fortunately they were at the end of the canteen, away from the line and the cash wrap area. "I'm craving a good ol' turkey and ham sandwich, pumpkin juice, and maybe a pasty of some sort?" he said to Michael as he analyzed the selection, "perhaps even a pack of sherbet lemons if I'm feeling fancy." The yellow confectionaries were probably the only sweets he liked in his whole entire life. He'd been a strange child and preferred fruit over candy, much to his parents delight and his siblings distain. It'd been because of him that they'd have to sneak candy into the house.

"What about you, Mr. Corner?" Elias asked as he turned toward his co-worker, "Perhaps a Cornish pasty or maybe a little of everything to corner the market on food." he grinned mischievously as he got a tray from the line.

“Don’t think I know any Morrises,” said Michael -- he only strayed to DMAC for emergencies, and this Morris bloke didn’t gamble. “What departments are your folks in?” A majority of Cordelia’s family was in DMAC too. (When he was younger he’d have liked that department. Basically the same thing he did now -- cleaning up others’ messes -- but with better pay. These days, though, he didn’t even leave the Ministry for lunch; he would hate working in the field.)

Elias was probably joking about the gossip and the apple juice and the tips and tricks but Michael was offended enough that he only managed a “Hah.” He gave another short, less fake laugh at the next bit -- “Goddamn boardroom three,” he said, almost smiling. “You can take a whack later this week, they’ve got another streeler conference Thursday.” Michael didn’t usually mind boardroom three, but the streelers and their glowing poisonous mucous were driving him mental.

The best way to get into a new job was all at once, wasn’t it? His first week, he’d tasked with cleaning the Official Gobstones Headquarters’ storage closet, with its cabinets of confiscated, tampered-with Gobstones. (Speaking of mucous, he thought drily.) It wasn’t hazing if it’d happened to him first.

Michael tried to think how much Hogwarts curriculum had benefited him in this job; not much, he decided. He had N.E.W.T.s in Astronomy and Ancient Runes -- lot of use that was now. “I don’t mind the cleaning,” he agreed; “To be frank, I like the cleaning. I’m, ah, fastidious.” The best part of his job, though, was the weather -- he almost liked the Ministry at four in the morning, when it was half-asleep and dusky. (He liked the people at four in the morning, too; he got on rather well with the overworked. Call it solidarity.)

He stopped on their way to the cafeteria to clock out for lunch, and to supervise Elias as he did too. “Everything here is done by wand recognition,” he said, “so if you get a new one you gotta register it at Security. Dunno if Reg or Danny told you that.”

Elias was musing about what to do for lunch; Michael waited until he was done to say, “Er, okay.” Cornish pastry was one he actually hadn’t heard before -- he gave it an approving “Hah” and rubbed the side of his nose where it was crooked. “I have a bag lunch, I just want a coffee.” The coffee on the fourth floor was preferable -- it tasted worse, made him antsier, and cost nothing -- but there were hags in the office, today, and they’d left only decaf.

When Michael asked about his family, he visibly deflated. Of course that was the typical talk, wasn't it? Then they'd wonder why Magical Maintenance? Why Magical Maintenance, indeed. His family were kind of jack-of-all trades in the Ministry. There were Deyers in all different avenues. His mother, thankfully not a Deyer, was a Healer and would have not been through the 'generations of Ministry employees' speech from their grandparents.

"Well, Grandpa Deyer just retired from the International Cooperation Office," he started, now having to remember what they actually did, "My Uncle Alistair is an Auror; has been for ten years?" He counted the years since Alistair graduated on his hand, vaguely aware he was doing so. He went about getting his lunch as he continued listing his relatives off, "My brother is a Magical Law Enforcement officer, and my father is a Historian and Researcher in the Department of Mysteries." he sighed as he quickly jabbed a finger over at his father's co-workers. "Those guys work with my father."

He sighed at thought of cleaning Streeler mucous, which he knew from CoMC was poisonous. Why they held those meetings at the Ministry was beyond him, but bureaucracy was nothing if not a ball of confusion and questionable decisions, was it not? He nodded to Michael as he was talking about himself, realizing he might have indeed offended his maybe only work friend.

"You know, I kind of admire what you guys do here, it's kind of one of those unsung jobs," he smiled a little at Michael, "So thank you for all the cleaned streeler mucous, bewitched windows and more."

Oh -- a lot of Elias’s family worked at the Ministry. It really did pose the question of what the hell Elias was doing in this department. Would it be rude to ask what his N.E.W.T.s had been? (Probably -- but what other reason was there? It couldn’t truly be about principle -- nobody was that principled in real life -- so Michael was dead curious.)

“That’s a lot more departments than I thought,” he said -- and only two of them in the same one. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he wasn’t from a Ministry family; he didn’t imagine his relationships with any of his relatives would benefit from being their janitor. The closest thing Michael had to a nepotistic link was a bloke in MLE who’d said, “Oh -- you’re Doug Corner’s boy” and thereafter gave him short shrift whenever he was setting the weather.

Elias heaved a sigh at the mention of streelers and Michael grinned. “It could be worse,” he said, “You could work for Transportation.” The DMT was cleaner -- much, much cleaner -- but much less interesting.

He appreciated Elias’s thanks; he grinned down at the cup of coffee he was pouring. It was cheap flattery, but unlike what he was cheaply flattered for, he no longer minded doing the cleaning, or the windows, or more. He was paid to do the cleaning and the windows.

“Er,” he said, “Welcome. It’s not much of a bother.” He grinned more in Elias’s direction, picking up his mug -- “Your job now, innit?” He tilted his head to one side and immediately cricked his neck; if Elias truly meant this to be a first step on his way to a better career, he hoped fervently that Elias wasn’t going to try for his job, only because he didn’t want to have to win it back. Michael rubbed at his neck -- ow -- and added, “So, er, you have any hobbies or what?”

"Yeah, my family's been in the Ministry for years and years, and unfortunately I just can't shake it." Elias revealed, sort of more candid than he meant to be. "I know you're dying to know why I'm here and not the Department for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," he smirked, as he maybe misread Michael's face of slight confusion for. "My NEWTS were: Charms, Outstanding. Transfiguration, Oustanding. Herbology, Outstanding, Potions, Exceeds Expectations, and finally History of Magic, Outstanding." he said as he listed off his grades from his alma mater Hogwarts.

"I truly do want to go through the ranks, but the dingleberries are making it hard for me to remain civilized throughout this endeavor." he lamented, as they sat down for lunch, a bit too near his father's co-workers for his liking. He'd finally chose a Chef's Salad with chicken for his lunch, without a pastry because he wanted to hold the fact that he looked as good as he did in high school over Danny and Jeremy's head as long as he worked there. He was candid as he allowed himself the pleasure of stabbing his fork through several layers of greenery before sending the whole affair into the void that was his mouth. The food was slick with vinaigrette as it wormed its way down the newly minted Ministry employee's throat. He definitely wasn't satisfied with the selection, but he owned it as he munched and talked with the older Magical Maintenance employee. "They kept calling me their intern, which is on the whole untrue, because I make a great margin more than what an intern in this department would make."

He offered this tidbit, as if it would help endear himself to Michael. Michael was probably frowning internally upon hearing the news of his NEWTS results and the fact he had a better salary than most interns start out with. Which is why he'd vehemently denied being an intern when interacting with the Dingle Duo. Unfortunately, his compulsion to make people like him made him act like someone had taken over hid body entirely.

"Yeah, plenty of hobbies." he said cooly to Michael. "I love working outside, even during winter." He realized that'd probably be a plus at extending his contract past winter, into the tropical, more intern-heavy months. "I also love puzzles and reading magazines." he said matter-of-factly toward Michael. He did indeed love puzzles and  reading. But not magazines. He hated magazines, and he supposed the older gentlemen liked them because they were made by prestigous older brands. He wouldn't of course tell Michael he loved writing, because what self-loving man of the world announced that he liked writing stories or anything of the sort unless he wanted the man in front of him to think he got this job as a thrill.

"What are you into, Michael?" he said ambiguously, but not loud enough for others to hear him. He wanted the question to be open, yet direct. Honest, yet a million meanings for the answer.

Elias’s N.E.W.T.s had been, it turned out, rather good; Michael nodded, impressed despite himself. “That… really truly doesn’t explain why you’re not in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes,” he said, and twitched the ends of his mouth into an almost-smile. “Marks like that, you could be… I dunno, whatever you wanted.”

Elias went on; Michael grinned properly, and had a sip of coffee -- there were only two people that dingleberries could refer to. “They do that,” he remarked. He liked them both, but he’d made it two years into this job without swearing in front of his boss, and it’d happened within two days of meeting the new temps.

They’d clearly gotten further under Elias’s skin than they had Michael’s; just now the other man was hell-bent on disclaiming that he was not an intern, and (in fact) was better paid than an intern. Michael, who’d started as an intern almost four years ago, had no idea what to say to this passionate assertion, other than, “Well, aye.” Interns in this department made a pittance: making a great margin more than that was sort of like being a good deal taller than a gnome.

“Oh, I like puzzles,” said Michael, deciding to ignore whatever Elias meant by working outside. (Gardening?) “What magazines?” He wasn’t much for magazines -- he got the monthly Transfiguration Journal, but he just skimmed it.

What was he into? “Dunno,” he said, aware suddenly of how dull his life sounded when he left out everything that made him sound like (1) a bummer (2) an alcoholic. “Er… Quidditch, I like Quidditch.” He decided not to bring up the fantasy Quidditch; anybody devoted to working his way legitimately through a bureaucracy per his own merit was probably not one to let in on a gambling scheme. “Music, books. Backgammon.”

Elias simply nodded along as the other man talked about his interests. Michael was again, making pleasant small talk with him, that much was clear. Elias guessed he appreciated it rather than the older man just brushing him off. He fiddled with the tops of his robes as he gouged his fork into another piece of salad-- wondering why he wanted Michael to like him. He actually didn't know what he wanted from the former Ravenclaw, actually. He hadn't decided whether it was actually worth getting to know anyone here if he needed to make a quick escape. That's how leaving Hogwarts had been so easy to him-- nothing to keep him there and no tight bonds to complicate feelings.

Oh well, the blonde man was enjoying the conversation, but his ears finally perked up when the man said something about quidditch. The concentrated scowl he didn't know he'd been holding lifted, and he cracked a smile. "Love Quidditch obviously, played on the Slytherin team back when Alvin Hadditch was Captain," he reminisced, remembering how grueling and degrading the training sessions were. He also worked at the Quidditch shop with his friend Seph, whom he still owled occasionally. He made a mental note to owl Seph as he searched for his house keys.

A moment later, he had them dangling in the air above the table between him and Michael. On the keys was a medium-sized brass-colored key with a diamond shape top, a smaller silver round one, and a gold plated figure holding up a quaffle. It was a keychain only sold at the 2000 World Quidditch Cup, and only in one booth. His friend had gifted it to him after Seph's family went. "Do you know what this is?"

He was going to use it to gauge how Quidditch-crazy the other man was, before he launched into a diatribe about how the Slavic league was worlds better than the British League. It was better to leave the near psychopathic rants about the inadequacies with in the league for maybe the third time they had lunch, he thought.

Elias seemed remarkably cheered by the topic change -- Michael raised his eyebrows as his colleague rooted through his robe pockets. It took him a moment to place that name -- Alvin Hadditch -- but Michael had not liked him. He let his own smile drop as Elias held out his keys, grateful to have an excuse to frown with confusion.

“What, your keys?” he said. There had to be some relevance to Quidditch here; he added, “If that’s like a special edition of something, I don’t go to any of the big games. I listen to the match reports on the radio.” He’d made it to a couple of the smaller ones that year, courtesy of one of the blokes in the bracket who worked for the Magical Sports division and could get him a steep discount, but those hadn’t been the sorts of games with collectibles. (And Tutshill had lost both of them.)

Michael always felt unreasonably embarrassed when he talked to someone who knew more than he did about the topic -- he added, “I do listen to near every game, like. At least in the British and Irish League.” This made him sound like a lunatic, without explanation, but he definitely couldn’t say why. Recreational gambling -- along with most illegal things -- was frowned upon in the Ministry.

With a shrug he turned back to his lunch, getting his sandwich out. “I never played, meself, I didn’t even make the reserve team. Can’t throw or catch worth a Knut. What position were you?” If he had to wager he’d say Beater -- Elias had the right build for it -- but he’d been surprised before.