Harry Potter has won the wizarding world, Voldemort is at last taken down. Yet a new issue rises from this victory. Due to the many murders in the wizarding world, the population has gone down tremendously. So the minister of magic, Kingsley Shackle...
I crawl out of bed reluctantly as the sun beams through a slit in my curtains. I grab a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra along with a silky white camisole from my dresser before grabbing a pair of charcoal slacks with flared legs and my white silk button up for work.
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I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pull my hair back into a severe bun before getting the rest of myself ready for a surely long shift. I pull my black flats on and my bag as I head out the door. Why are we even required to go to work while the ministry drops this gigantic bomb all over Great Britain's wizarding world, literally taking away one of our most basic freedoms as people!? I nearly stomp to the alleyway near my apartment building where I can safely apparate to the ministry to work a ten hour shift I think is uncalled for. Someone has to be making money I guess. I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is around to see me twist and disappear into thin air before doing just that.
Within the same second I'm standing nearly fifteen blocks away from my apartment building and standing in an alleyway just across the street from the telephone booth leading into the ministry of magic that's used for visitors. I look both ways before hastily crossing the street and shoving myself into the telephone booth before a thirty-something year old woman with short cropped blonde hair could. She scowls at me as I smile apologetically at the woman on the other side of the glass. I punch in the code as quickly as possible on the pad underneath the black colored phone: 62442. The booth sinks below ground at almost a snails pace, the scowling lady already has stomped off to find another booth to make whatever call she was hoping to have made. Must've been a muggle. I let the woman slide from my mind as the black marble floors of the ministry come into view below my feet. People in all kinds of clothes, colors of cloaks, and heights of hats come into view as they mill about the lobby to either hop in line for an elevator or buy the daily prophet that has not yet been issued into the public. Daily prophets are sent out at 9:15 sharp every morning during the week and promptly eleven a.m. on weekends. Fifteen more minutes before people who are unemployed, retired, just getting ready for work, students at Hogwarts, or people that have an off day will have their papers. I drop a sickle in a brass jar and take a newspaper from the journalist's grasp as I make my way to my own office on the fifth floor: International Magical Office of Law. I step into an open elevator with three other coworkers: Bethany, who works in the obliviator headquarters, Jocelyn, who works in the muggle liaison office, and Liam, who works with werewolf registry. I bid them all a good morning as a house elf by the name of Pigslie punches in all of our floor numbers with a professional little bob of his head. I smile fondly at the little creature as he crosses his arms toughly. Liam exits the elevator first without any words spoken as he flips through a thick packet of parchment. His left hand has a golden band wrapped around his ring finger. Married at twenty-two, at least he got away from the marriage law. I think bitterly as the door closes behind him. The next floor was mine so I step around the two other ladies in my way and grin at Pigslie.
