There is something in the shadows
More than sister silhouette
Something sinister and strange
That I haven't seen yet
And I don't want to be alone
Sky, don't let the sun go
I'm not ready for the darkness
Swear upon a heartless soul
Jonathan Sr considered himself an adaptable man, amenable to change and adjusting as need be. But over the years, he found that nothing in the world was really as important as it puffed itself to be. At least not enough to disturb his ironclad rule: he would allow no disturbances to his elevenses. The world could burn at that hour, and Jonathan Sr would still boil his tea. The point of the Ministry was that no man was so invaluable as to be required for every pressing matter. It was true that Jonathan Sr availed himself far more than he liked during this conference, but even if he had to work harder to undo the damage of his inept subordinates, they were small sacrifices to the preservation of this sweet, sacred hour.
The day began as a mad dash, delegates packing their things before the last morning session, eager to depart the moment the Nigerian Minister for Magic concluded the conference. And while France and Nigeria held their sessions, the other countries made their final meetings, confirming and solidifying the partnerships made during the past five days.
Jonathan Sr was already in a sour mood. Just a few minutes prior, he received an owl post from his Ministry, confirming his return and and the tentative date and hour of his summative report. It would have been just another letter of bureaucratic formality, a minor acknowledgement he already knew was part of his agenda. But one of the signatures on the bottom, next to Shacklebolt’s, was his son’s. And typed underneath his signature was the new title he apparently bore: Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
WHO IN THEIR WITLESS ADDLED MIND THOUGHT TO MAKE JONATHAN A BLOODY DAMN DEPARTMENT HEAD?!Shacklebolt only made fleeting appearances in the summit, taking the Floo back and forth between Ibadan and London. He was back in their home office, preventing Jon Sr from tearing the increasingly insolent man a new one. Jonathan Sr had half a mind to leave the Conference on the spot and demand how and why his fool of a son was given such a position without his knowledge. It wasn’t that Jon Sr was completely unaware of the matter. No, Jonathan’s name had been slipped to Shacklebolt’s ears since he took the mantle of leading the Ministry. But Jon Sr had time and again refused to give his support.
It wasn’t that his son was inept at his job. Rather, to Jonathan Sr’s chagrin and amusement, the younger Emerson carved a name for himself as a deceptively effective diplomat. Hardly anyone, Jon Sr himself, knew how to make of his son, who always had a way of landing hooks that no one suspected. And it wasn’t the learned, deliberate approach that Jon Sr took, but something instinctive, innate.
And it was precisely why Jon Sr forbid his son’s career advancement to what he currently held. Whatever short-term boons they may gain, it would become a liability if Jonathan failed to understand the increasing gravity of the post he held, and the ramifications that his whimsical choices had for the men and women who worked below him. Leadership, and knowing the weight it carried, was something far different from simply being a good Official.
Jon Sr had barely gotten over Shacklebolt’s capitulation to the Swedes in releasing Gaius. But promoting Jon Sr’s own son without his consent? It was nigh unforgivable. The only thing that kept him was that he knew his tea and scones were being prepared, and ready for him in just a few minutes.
Nothing, not even this, would ruin his elevenses. So with a huff, and some hastily scrawled howlers that were sent to the present Ibadan delegation and back at home, he stormed his way to a small wing, practically barreling into the room and the table set for him.
He was seated by a balcony with a southern exposure, the eaves overhead blocking just enough of the waning summer sun to keep the room bright without being blinding. At least the air was pleasant. And then the teas! Lovely, soothing fragrances wafted from the fine, porcelain pots, and their balming effects were immediate. Jon Sr’s cares, which were currently many, faded for the moment.
He plated a scone and a quiche onto a plate, then poured himself a well-needed cuppa. He heard the door open behind him, and Jon Sr turned, his expression softening and his mood brightening as he saw who entered.
‘My dear Natasha, always such a pleasure!’ He set down the teapot and rose to greet her warmly. ‘Your gracious presence is always an honour and a delight, do sit!’ Ever the gentleman, he held the seat for her, and offered to pour a cup.
As he took his seat again, he set a velvet lined box on the table between their saucers, which held a handsomely made brooch of diamonds set in rose gold, depicting a pixie before a crescent moon.
‘I never got to properly apologise for your last visit in our London offices,’ he began, trying to affect a solemn tone, but could not hide the amused twinkle in his eyes.
‘It is a grievance I hope I may resolve, one of many.’ He became more serious at the last. ‘Unfortunately, we’ve been saddled with problems peskier than pixies of late.’
@Natasha Newberry 
