Work Text:
I love my job, I love my job, I remind myself as her voice reaches through the row of cubicles to mine, its intonation chilling the already cooled out coffee I never got to drink. Because a certain someone needed me to work on an entirely new spread for the Bikini Fits Everyone article. That’s the seventh time we’ve rearranged the page. Is this how people working in fashion manage to fit within the destructive societal norms – working themselves into forgoing meals?
I don’t remember the last time I ate something with more nutritional value than a chocolate frog.
I hate my boss.
I hate my boss, but I love my job, so I leave my quill in the middle of the note I was jotting on how to edit that picture and jump straight into a run out of my work station. Jones from three cubicles down pops out to make one of his usual disgusting remarks. Knowing he’d be kicked out as soon as I report him is what gives me the strength to endure and makes me like my boss a little bit. Just a little bit.
She’s a bitch, but she’s a fair bitch.
I have the bitch in sight when I realise I’ve forgotten my camera. Judging by the look on her face, the bitch knows it too.
“I’m sorry, I won’t be a minute!” I call after her as she turns to go.
“Come along when you finally have everything you need” she doesn’t stop or turn around. “You might be just in time to clean up.”
My boss likes her little jokes. I have to run past Jones twice more.
“Looking to improve my mood with a good view, Edwards? I’m not complaining!”
I don’t pay him any mind. I hope it shows him his slimy behaviour can’t get to me. He doesn’t deserve my recognition.
She’s gone by the time I’m out in the corridor again. Of course. She won’t wait for a nobody in Editorial. Her time is precious and other people only ever waste it. I wonder, why have me drop everything and rush to the studio, then? I remember no photoshoot being scheduled for today. Even if there was, me and my camera wouldn’t be welcome there.
I run, my heels killing off the last nerve endings in the soles of my feet, and hope I won’t be fired on the spot.
The door to the studio is closed. Am I signing my own death warrant by walking in now?
Oh, well. How much worse can it get, really?
I push.
“You owe me ten Galleons, I told you she won’t remember a simple Summoning Spell.”
The rush of self-flagellation is dampened by the wave of shock that hits me. The newly-elected Minister for Magic is standing in the middle of the otherwise nearly empty studio (save for my boss who’s not even looking at me). No Aurors, no secretaries, no bodyguards. Not that the Hermione Granger needs bodyguards.
And now she turns to me with a smile. Oh God, what am I supposed to say? Before I can think of anything, she turns away, the edges of her smile creeping downwards.
“I’m not surprised, Pansy, she looks like she hasn’t had a break in months.”
My boss doesn’t flinch at being scolded by the Head of government.
“You don’t get successful by lounging around taking breaks, Minister. I thought you of all people would know that.”
I can’t decipher the look on the Minister’s face. I’m not given time to ponder either.
“Salazar’s snake, Izobel, get in and close the door! Do you want the whole floor swarming the place for autographs?”
The Minister frowns a bit when I nearly trip over my feet to carry out the order.
“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson, Minister.”
My boss doesn’t acknowledge me. No surprise there.
The Minister steps closer.
“Izobel, right?”
“Yes, Minister.”
I wish my voice would stop playing that trick on me where it cracks at the most inopportune moment. I can see my boss’s lips pursing. The Minister extends a hand.
“I’m Hermione Granger.”
My boss says the words I’m thinking. Of course, in my mind they sound less scornful.
“It’s been over a decade, Granger, do you still think you need introductions?”
The Minister throws her a look I can’t see. I wish I could. It makes my boss scoff, which is recognition. At most, things she considers unextraordinary are graced with an eyeroll. She considers most things unextraordinary.
The Minister turns back to me. I realise I still haven’t shaken her hand.
“Izobel Edwards” I say, rectifying my mistake.
“It’s very nice to meet you. Here.”
She drops my hand to reach into her little bag, way deeper than she should be able to reach.
“I swear I had – oh, there it is” she pulls out a KitKat, handing it to me. “Have it, it’s a Muggle sweet.”
“Oh, thank you, I know” I say as I try not to drop my camera. “I’m Muggle-born.”
“Indeed?”
This time I can see the side of her face as she looks at my boss again. There’s curiosity – surprise? – displayed there.
“Well, that’s something we have in common then” the Minister flashes me the smile I’ve seen on so many front pages. “Eat it, please. I suspect you’ve had nothing since breakfast.”
Nothing since last night, actually. I know I can’t say that out loud in front of my boss. I glance towards her instead, knowing she would disapprove of seeing me snack instead of doing whatever she called me here for, yet wondering how she expects me to say no to the Minister for Magic.
“Go on, then” she’s impatient as usual. “We have to indulge the Golden Girl.”
In the ensuing silence, the sound of me unwrapping my KitKat rings throughout the studio. The Minister’s displeasure is once again aimed at my boss. Am I a bitch too, for enjoying being in the presence of someone she obviously can’t intimidate?
“I hate that nickname” the Minister says in a tone which suggests my boss knows this.
“You’ll get over it” my boss shrugs and turns away to set up the lights. I bite into my KitKat, trying not to smile.
I wonder when the photographers are going to arrive. There is clearly going to be a photoshoot featuring the Minister: she sits down on a chair and takes out a mirror to check her appearance.
She sits on a chair she Conjures by herself. In a matter of seconds. Without using her wand or speaking an incantation. I finish my KitKat and slip the wrapper in my pocket, deciding it would never see the unworthy interior of a wastebin. I might frame it.
“Are you done with your break?” my boss barks at me and reminds me of her presence. I could’ve gone without that reminder.
“Yes, of course!” I stand to attention.
“Good, you’re all set for another couple of months then” she smiles viciously. I genuinely believe it’s the only way she can smile – with her eyes narrowing slightly, and her lips stretching too wide for comfort. I suppress a shudder. “Now, we are going to start with a few simple shots of Her Majesty over here, and work from there.”
The Minister lets out a small laugh as she prepares to have a photo taken.
“Let me know if you need me to change my posture.”
It’s addressed to me, but it’s my boss who answers, with that little smirk in her voice.
“Sure, as soon as the photographer gets ready.”
I fear for the poor photographer who’s taking their sweet time, making both the editor-in-chief and the Minister for Magic wait. And little old me. I could have been able to squeeze in a quick lunch break while the boss wasn’t looking.
The Minister faces me with a polite smile. Slightly expectant. My boss rolls her eyes.
I feel the KitKat start to make its way back up.
“M-Me?” I stammer. “I’m supposed to take the photos?”
“Unless you can think of another reason why I told you to come with your camera” my boss snaps.
I really can’t. I suppose it should have struck me as a bit odd she knew I had a camera in the first place. I usually keep it in my bag. I only carry it in case I see something I really like and have to take a photo. None of my work here has anything to do with photography, sadly.
So, why is the whole horde of photographers the editor-in-chief of Witch Weekly have waiting on her hand and foot not here instead of me?
“Did you forget your brain in that little box of yours in Editorial?” my boss lashes out. “If yes, ask for some from The Brightest Witch of Her Age, she’s got plenty.”
“Quit harassing the girl!”
“I apologise if my teaching methods are too much for you!”
I tune them out as they start bickering, my thoughts on something else entirely. Pansy Parkinson – excluding the fact she’s my horrible boss – the brilliant fashion mogul who scores breakthrough after breakthrough introducing more varied everyday wear for witches and wizards. She had once held Witch Weekly’s Most Influential Witch title for sixteen consecutive weeks. A record remaining unbroken to this day. And now she actually works at the magazine and has transformed its portrayal of women’s interests.
When you put it like that, she sounds pretty darn cool. Of course, like I said, we’re excluding the fact she’s exceedingly arrogant, entitled, demanding, harsh, uncompromising-
“Look at her. She’s exactly like you, every thought plain on her face. If a Legilimens were here, they’d tell us she’s thinking about what a bitch I am.”
“Can you read that on my face too?”
The Minister had got to her feet. Her and my boss are pretty much at each other’s throat, literally and figuratively. It’s still different than when my boss goes off on someone for missing a deadline or simply because she’s in a mood. She almost seems… alive. Her eyes look like they do when she’s bored in a meeting and turns to sketching in a notebook. Dreamy, I’d call them if it made sense that Pansy Parkinson is dreamy-eyed. She’d Hex me if she heard. Still, arguing with the Minister seems to bring her as much joy as seeing an outfit come together.
“All right, that’s enough” she says, but her tone lacks its designated bite. “Stop embarrassing me in front of the highlife, Edwards. I obviously want you to take pictures. Now do your job or go pack up.”
The Minister backs down as well, taking a seat once more. My boss turns to me, and her voice is detached as ever.
“Snap snap, Edwards.”
She moves out of frame as I prepare my camera and focus on the Minister. I have no idea how she even found out I’m into photography. But if this is my one chance to have her notice, I won’t waste it.
“Erm, alright, I’m taking the photo now.”
The Minister nods, and I see through the eyepiece that she smiles at me kindly before looking at the lenses a bit more seriously. I press the button, flash going off. I’m not sure this is the best I can do, so I snap a few more. The Minister doesn’t object, and even my boss seems to respect the need for silence while I’m working. That’s new. She usually expects everyone to adapt to her frequency, drop everything and listen when she talks and dive straight back in when she’s done and needs them to provide her with results as soon as possible.
I sneak a glance her way, wondering when she’s going to start correcting my angle and telling me how I should do my job, as she does with any other photographer.
She’s not looking at me. And not just pretending not to while actually following with her peripheral vision. She seems to have forgotten I exist. She’s looking at the Minister.
Her posture is more relaxed – not slouching, as if Pansy Parkinson would ever slouch and ruin the perfectly ironed fabrics that hug her body, - her arms are crossed in that way that looks as if she’s holding herself more than trying to appear closed off, and her facial muscles have recovered from their near-constant state of tautness. She’s biting the inside of her cheek as is her custom when she is proud of something but doesn’t want to express that pride around other people.
Yes, I’ve spent way too much time studying her instead of focusing on my job. Bite me.
And now I can see the sharp tongue that struck the Minister earlier wasn’t really aiming to hurt.
My camera snaps another photo. I redirect my attention towards the eyepiece just in time to catch the Minister’s gaze stray from its focus on the lenses. It wanders off to the right, losing itself out of frame. I don’t need to check to know where she’s looking.
“Er, would you like to see-”
“Yes, Edwards, give that here.”
My boss’s curt response shatters any hopes and illusions of her ‘softening up’. Yet I know what I saw.
She treats my camera with enough care, even though it’s ripped out of my hold impatiently. I feel beads of sweat working their way through the skin of my armpits, soaking my shirt. I’m so thankful I decided to layer with a blazer today.
Waiting for her to go through all of them feels like expecting the Wizengamot to sentence me to a Dementor’s Kiss. Her lips purse, then relax, her eyes narrowing every now and then. How many photos did I take? No more than a dozen. My boss is decisive, she knows when she likes something and when she doesn’t like it. She’s certain exactly what’s wrong with it. I highly doubt she’s searching for words to let me down gently. I don’t think she knows what the word ‘gentle’ even means.
“Adequate.”
I stare. Apparently, even the Minister knows how rare a compliment my boss just issued because she’s giving me an encouraging smile.
“Can I see?”
The situation’s out of my control anyway, I don’t have my camera back. My boss walks over to hand it to her, continuing to stare down at the photos as the Minister looks through them.
“I see what you mean, Pansy” the Minister’s voice is a hushed mutter I’m probably not meant to hear, but the studio’s acoustics carry it over to me. “She is talented.”
Say what?
My boss is not happy that came out. I realise I’m gaping a split second too late.
“Perfect, Granger, now look what you’ve done” my boss’s nostrils flare in disdain as she lifts her eyes to me. “I said you were adequate, Edwards, don’t flatter yourself.”
Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. My insides are swelling though. And what the Minister says next definitely doesn’t help matters.
“Nuh-uh, Parkinson, what were your exact words, ‘She evidently has a passion for photography and from what I’ve seen she’s really good at it’?”
That’s the closest to being uncomfortable I’ve ever seen my boss. There is a pinkish tint to her cheeks as she huffs and pushes away from the Minister’s chair.
“And now she knows it she’s going to feel free to stop working hard! Honestly, Granger, you couldn’t have ruined it better if you tried.”
The Minister finds this funny and even winks at me as she hands me back my camera. I claim it, the bubbly feeling inside me expanding as I replay her last sentence in my mind again. My boss’s words, to be exact. From what I’ve seen…
“I wasn’t aware you had seen any of my work” I face my boss when she turns around to scold me, probably, then clamps her mouth shut instead. She seems taken aback. I’m aware my courage is going to fizzle out the moment she remembers herself; there is only one Gryffindor in the room.
“You keep it in your desk, is it my fault you can’t properly Ward it?”
She’s justifying snooping around my cubicle. Pansy Parkinson is trying to explain her actions. To me.
“You went through her desk?”
Okay, maybe not to me. My boss averts her gaze. The Minister fires up, and the whole revelation is followed by a lecture on privacy and employer-employee relations.
I don’t pay much attention. In my mind, one sentence plays on repeat, one word emphasised every single time.
Talented. Pansy Parkinson thinks I’m talented. She stated it based on reviewing the photos I bring with me to work, stashing them inside my desk to wait for the moment I gather enough courage to send some out.
“If you’re done adjusting my moral compass, we have work to do” my boss reminds the Minister pointedly, interrupting her rant. The Minister releases a breath of frustration, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs. I’ve raised my camera before I could think it through; it’s a reflex at this point.
The flash goes off.
Bollocks.
Two pairs of eyes snap up to me. The Minister is no longer smiling. My boss looks like she’s ready to kill. How considerate of me to muck it all up at the precise moment she needs to take out her frustration on someone lower in the hierarchy. Bracing for impact, I fumble with the buttons next to the camera screen.
“I-I’m sorry! I’ll delete it now, here-”
“Give me that, Edwards!”
My boss manages to grab the camera before the photo is gone. I freeze as she holds it up to take a look. Is she going to give me a chance to beg before she sets it aflame? These things are bloody expensive, if I’m past the point of keeping my job, I would at least like to have this.
“Show me the photo, Pansy.”
My boss moves silently, standing behind the Minister while holding the camera so they could both see it. I know exactly what they’re looking at, the image is captured in my brain.
The Minister’s closed-off air in the photo, the displeasure etched into her features, the slightly menacing curl of her lip. The way she’s leaning back in her chair, chin high up as if challenging my boss. The pointy tip of her heel nearly grazing my boss’s calf.
My boss towering over her, her own arms crossed, legs planted in a confident stance, one bent slightly at the knee in the process of tapping a foot impatiently against the floor. Her jaw is set, and the edge of her bob reveals a vein popping out on the side of her neck. Her lips are slightly puckered in defiance. Her hooded eyes make for the perfect angle of her staring down.
It would have been criminal not to capture the moment. To have it exist on camera, even for just a little while before I have to delete it.
The Minister tilts her head to look up at my boss. I don’t know about all the people who claim they know what she’s thinking. I have no idea what’s going on behind those thoughtful brown eyes.
“She should take some more of the two of us.”
Not what I would have chosen to say, had I been asked to take a wild guess. My boss raises an eyebrow, some silent understanding passing between the two of them. I await the verdict.
My camera is extended back to me, unharmed. I thank my boss, who waves away my gratitude.
“Take the photos, Edwards, we’ve wasted enough time.”
I nod, moving to stand far enough again. As I raise the camera to my eyes, the two women go to poise themselves with their intended self-importance. I press the button a few times, then move to a different angle. My boss moves around the chair a bit, standing on either side, then behind it. Always a step away though. Not necessarily a bad shot, but I exhaust my ideas for that one pretty quickly. Time to shake things up.
“Um, Minister, would you mind standing up for a couple shots?”
“Good idea” the Minister says, getting to her feet and smoothing down her pantsuit. My boss flicks her wand, murmuring a Spell, and the chair disappears.
“Right, Granger, cross your arms and stand like that. Don’t smile.”
I don’t bemoan the boring pose nor do I voice an opinion on what the next one should be. I can see my boss is caught up in thinking of positions that would put them close in frame yet set them light years apart when you look at the finished product. By now I’ve guessed the Minister would be featured in an article in next week’s issue. No explanation for doing the photoshoot here, otherwise. It’s also clear my boss is overseeing the creation of the page – or pages – herself. That’s another level of bizarre: usually, a magazine would ensure information is leaked that the Minister for Magic has agreed to be included in an issue. It’s no easy feat to organise, with all the setbacks of a bunch of people following the Minister anywhere – wartime paranoia.
And with the fact that Hermione Granger is practically against any sort of publicity, this turns into a real puzzle. I mean, the bloody Daily Prophet is still trying to reach her for a statement after the election results came out. Just yesterday, Rita Skeeter filled yet another issue of the newspaper with complaints that the top floor at the Ministry ‘remains inaccessible’.
I don’t care much for puzzles. But I am looking to do a good job.
“Do you think you can stand back to back? Maybe lean on each other a little bit.”
This draws a small smile from the Minister. My boss seems hesitant to comply. Not don’t-tell-me-how-to-pose, ready-to-lash-out hesitant; an actual I’m-not-sure-what-to-do hesitant. She’s stiff, her foot tapping against the ground in an attempt to stay in place and not dash for the door.
The Minister makes the decision for her. In what I’d call quite thoughtless a move, considering who my boss is, she lets her body tilt without a backwards glance.
My boss immediately slides one step back, meeting her halfway, offering her body as support.
I take a picture as they turn their faces towards the camera, each looking sideways at the other.
“Do you have any self-preservation instincts at all?” my boss hisses, pure venom.
“I have trust as well” the Minister replies calmly.
“Are you done, Edwards?” my boss turns her ire to me, deflecting.
“Not quite, you need to relax your stance a bit.”
And ooh, there comes the reminder to know my place. I can already hear it, before the words are spoken. It comes from the twitch of my boss’s eyebrow, the brief narrowing of her eyes, the lips opening like Pandora’s box to unleash the horrors inside.
No one tells Pansy Parkinson what to do, much less what she needs to do. I wonder if she can also do wandless, wordless magic, like the Minister. Probably not. I’d be thrown on my arse already.
Just as suddenly as the changes manifested, they begin to drift away, the storm brewing on my boss’s face clearing up. She lets out a soft sigh, her figure melting against the Minister’s. My camera snaps and the flash strikes the slivers of rings visible on my boss’s hand. They’re carefully picked out, tastefully spread along her left hand, and currently hidden by the Minister’s fingers slipping between my boss’s, resting over her knuckles as if they were designed to fit there.
I should have noticed it sooner, I think as I let my hands work on autopilot to capture as many shots as I can before my boss makes it out of her Minister-induced docility.
The fabric of my boss’s skirt is the same as the Minister’s suit. The shirt below the vest, from what I can see of the buttons, matches the Minister’s. The pattern on the vest is dark red. I’m not even mentioning the jewellery because it would make me sound plain stupid. Hermione Granger is wearing a bloody snake-shaped ring around her finger. Even their heels are the same, in different colours.
In my defense, I wouldn’t have seen it coming in a million years. I mean, everybody knows they were in the same year at Hogwarts, though rumour is, there was no love lost between them. The only event they both appeared at was Draco Malfoy’s wedding a few years ago. Back then, the press had been focused on the Golden Trio attending, of course, and while they had been all smiles and congratulations, I don’t remember a single photo of those two interacting. Pansy Parkinson hadn’t even appeared at a Battle anniversary Gala until-
Until the one this year. I remember everyone’s elation when her secretary announced the boss had cleared her schedule for the first three days of May. First time I’d ever heard of her taking a day off.
The Minister swipes her thumb across the back of my boss’s hand. I have a brilliant idea. Still no actual proof my theory is true, and at a loss as to what the pictures are for. But if I’m right…
“I have an idea.”
My boss raises an eyebrow, skeptical like she is towards any suggestion that does not come from her.
“You’re the photographer” the Minister straightens up without letting go of my boss’s hand.
I like her. And when my boss evidently bites back whatever retort she had ready, I decide I can like her as well. As long as the Minister’s in the room.
“Er – we’ll need a chair again. Preferably like the one in your office, Minister.”
She nods and takes out her wand for that. I doubt she can’t do this without it, perhaps she just doesn’t like to show off. Which is crazy seeing as if anyone has reasons to show off, it’s her.
They’re soon standing behind a leather upholstered chair with polished wooden armrests.
“Perfect” I say, moving forward without pausing to think. That would make me lose my momentum and bring my boss right back into a mood. For now, she’s quiet. Not happily compliant, but at least keeping it to herself, which is a win. “Minister, if you could sit and cross your legs – actually, bring one up, ankle over your knee – yes! And Pansy, you should-”
Okay, now that’s pushing it. I don’t even know where it came from, and my ears start to burn.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Cut it out, Edwards. Where do you need me?”
Preferably not breathing down my neck.
“Erm – behind the chair, and leaning on the Minister’s shoulders. No, with your elbows. Yes, like that.”
It works that my boss is short. So not telling her that.
“Put your chin in your hand – or not, if you-”
“Yes or no, Edwards, you’re making the decision.”
Her tone is no less authoritative, but she does as she’s told when I say ‘yes’. I can hear a bemused hum from the Minister as I walk back to take a look.
“Okay” I try not to sound surprised to find that my idea works. “Um, just, use the armrests, Minister, and try holding your wand in one hand.”
I can’t scramble to focus my camera fast enough. If they don’t use this shot for whatever they’re cooking up, I’m definitely keeping it to show off.
The Minister is twirling her wand between her fingers; her lips hint at a self-satisfied smirk. My boss’s expression above her is serious. Black nails contrast very well with the red at the Minister’s shoulder. I notice they’re trimmed short. I try not to get images-
Too late. God, is it me or is the tension finally registering now I know for sure – I mean, not for sure, but – oh, who am I kidding, they look like they’d do it on that chair the second I’m out of the studio.
“Hurry it up, Edwards, my back’s killing me over here!”
Oh, she’s not even bent over that low.
I nearly drop my camera when a whole new meaning of bent over floods my brain.
“Done!” I squeak, walking to hand over the camera without getting too close. Wouldn’t want to get caught up in whatever they have going on. My boss continues to lean on the Minister as she inspects the photos. No complaints about her back now.
“Well, well. You’re not entirely hopeless, after all.”
I can’t help my smile. The Minister swats her arm.
“Let me see.”
“Nuh-uh” my boss passes me the camera high overhead. I take it, certain the Minister can obtain it with a snap of her fingers. She doesn’t try to. “You’ll see the finished product when it’s done, along with everyone else, Minister. No cutting corners because of your fame.”
Oh, I so want to leave right this instant. Thankfully, my boss doesn’t seem to want me around either.
“Develop all the photos and leave them on my desk, Edwards. You go in, you leave them, if my secretary stops you, Hex her.”
The Minister seems to have something to say about that, but I don’t hang around to hear. The air in the corridor outside feels surprisingly fresh and makes me realise how stuffy it had been in the studio. As I set off back towards the offices, I hear a click from the door behind me.
More than a decade of mutual dislike and something else apparently. I notice a model twirling in front of a mirror while a colleague of mine anxiously checks the time.
“Hey, Vi, you should reschedule that photoshoot” I say in passing.
“What? It’s been on the calendar forever, the girl Portkeyed in for this!”
“Trouble in the studio” I call back, not turning around because I’m sure my face is a giveaway. “Parkinson’s not happy and is dealing with it personally. Feel free to go interrupt her though.”
Vivianna is not that stupid, thankfully. No one is. Let’s just hope the Minister remembers to Apparate out afterwards. I scuttle back over to my cubicle, ignoring Jones’ question on whether I’m blushing for him.
“Izzy, Miss Parkinson wants you in her office now.”
I’d known this day would come. I look at the secretary, quite ashen faced probably since she smiles sympathetically.
“I’ll miss you, sugar” Jones throws after me. I swallow down the Curse that comes to mind.
My boss’s office stays closed at all times, and no one ever wants to have to open the solid wooden door. It’s the last layer of protection the team has against her, once you get called in, you might not make it out. Cassie, the secretary, gives me thumbs-up before I knock and immediately open the door. One rule, don’t make her waste breath on calling you in. No one in their right mind would come knocking if they weren’t invited, anyway.
“You wanted to see me, Miss Parkinson?”
“Close the door, Edwards.”
Translation: place yourself in close proximity to me in an enclosed space with no witnesses. I wish I’d taken my camera so I could be buried with it.
“You’re fired.”
I’d known it and I accept it even as my eyes widen and my mouth hangs open. If not my boss, then the Minister for sure picked up on me discovering their secret. I’m surprised she’s not here making me do an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal anything.
“From Editorial, that is” my boss looks up from the letter she’s writing to smirk at me. “Quit shaking. I’m hiring you as a photographer. Saying no is an option, of course, not one I’d recommend, and one you’re too smart to choose.”
I shake my head to clear my overwhelmed brain and do my best to get my jaw up. I’m not entirely successful, so I occupy my mouth with speaking in order to not have it look funny.
“I, er – thank you, I’m – you know, um, I mean-”
“That thank you was too much words on its own, Edwards” she cuts me off. “Thank me by working hard. And stop it with the filler words. Say what you mean and say it with conviction. Now get out of here, I expect you back to work next Monday to sign your new contract. Take time off to eat KitKats or whatever else you do on your breaks.”
Next Monday, that’s a whole week! I’m unable to move for the next few seconds as I process it. My boss, whose attention is back on her letter, speaks again, just as evenly.
“I distinctly remember telling you to go, Edwards. Or were you expecting me to offer you tea?”
Sure, if it includes poison. I swallow down the ‘um’ that tries to squeeze into the beginning of my sentence.
“I’m leaving you now, I just wanted to give a pointer since you’ve kicked off the day by firing me-” I withstand the inquisitive look she fixes me with. Her eyebrow slowly raises up. “You might want to continue the streak with Jones from Editorial. Suggestive comments and constant offers for drinks after work are not what he should be focusing on while working here, I think.”
There is a teeny, tiny, barely-there-perhaps-even-not twitch to the corner of lips painted dark red.
“Tell Jones I want to see him on your way out.”
Walking back to my cubicle, I try to look glum and not skip for joy. It would raise questions if I’m happy after a meeting with Miss Parkinson, whereas leaving and never coming back is considered normal.
Never is a strong word.
It doesn’t take long to pack up my things – I only have my camera and some parchment lying around on my desk for when I need to send a memo. I stuff both in my backpack and open the drawer to take out whatever photos I’ve left there that my boss has evidently rifled through.
It’s lying there, underneath them all, hot off the print. This week’s issue. Perhaps the first one since no whispers have begun their travels yet along the narrow corridors of Witch Weekly’s offices.
‘A farewell gift,’ is scribbled on a piece of parchment in my boss’s curvy handwriting.
On the cover, above the picture I took, with bold letters flashes the following, Witches Make History: Hermione Granger – Not Only The First Woman to Become Minister, the First Queer One, Too.
Below the photo, in a slightly smaller font, Witch Weekly’s exclusive interview with the Minister on the road to success and her relationship with Editor-in-Chief Pansy Parkinson you can find on pages two and three.
I place the magazine in my backpack as well, zipping it up.
“You’re really leaving?” Jones gapes as I pop into other cubicles to bid my friends goodbye.
“Yep” I turn at the door. “Oh, and almost forgot, she wants to see you too.”
It’s funny to watch the colour drain from his face, but now I have more important things to get to. Like, for example, go buy a KitKat.