Sullivan Fawley smiled as he read through the financial statement sitting on his desk. His company, a fairly recent startup in the Artificer Alley, offered spellcrafting and general Arithmantic services to anyone with money. Thanks to the post-war population boom and absence of Dark threats, the wizarding economy was thriving, and savvy entrepreneurs like himself took full advantage of that. That isn't to say that there weren't any setbacks – but he always managed to adapt and come out on top.

There was a knock at his office door and he pressed a button on his desk, causing it to open automagically. His smartly-dressed assistant walked in carrying a stack of papers.

"We're finished with the interviews, Mr. Fawley."

"Take a seat, Peterson. What do you have for me?"

"Three candidates, sir, at least one of them very promising." The younger man seemed excited, and for a good reason: they had been looking for a knowledgeable Arithmancer for months. "All of us agree that one Bartholomew Claverdon is our best bet. He solved the tests effortlessly, but remained cooperative and courteous despite the tasks clearly being well below his level. Mr. Claverdon had been working for the Ministry for the last four years, but left looking for a more challenging job with better advancement opportunities."

"Claverdon, eh..." Sullivan drummed his fingers on the desk as he tried to recall if he had ever heard that name before. "Weren't they a minor pureblood family from Durham?"

Peterson scanned his papers quickly. "Well, he's definitely a pureblood, but..."

The older man sighed tiredly. He knew it was too good to be true. "Do we have any Muggleborn this time?"

"Just one, sir. Samantha Dewberry, fresh out of Hogwarts. She didn't do that well." The assistant reached for the two sheets at the bottom of the stack and frowned. "In fact, she failed to solve even a single problem."

Sullivan covered his face with his palms and groaned. There was no other choice.

"We'll have to hire her."

"S-sir?" Peterson looked gobsmacked. "This young lady doesn't even seem to have a grasp on simple base 13 calculations. Frankly, I don't understand how she managed to get that Arithmancy NEWT at all."

"Affirmative action, Peterson – same reason why we have to hire Miss Dewberry," he explained tiredly. "Granger's department has been on our case for a while now. If we don't start meeting the quotas soon, we'll be in serious trouble."

Peterson squared his shoulders. "Forgive me for being so blunt, Mr. Fawley, but this woman would just slow the team down. Our current projects are simply too complex for someone with no experience to be able to contribute to."

That was true enough. New hires could be trained up, but Fawley's spellcrafters were creative, hard-working, and, above all, enthusiastic about their job. As a result, his company was quickly becoming the place to go to for master-level mathemagical research. Optimizing existing spellwork, determining the best time and date for enacting a ritual, or calculating the magical power needed for an enchantment was not something a clueless newbie could do. None of his people had less than an 'E' in Arithmancy, and most had been interested in the field since school.

"We'll just create a new position, then," Fawley decided. "Call it something fancy, like 'spellcrafting evangelist', tell her to look for new clients. Maybe something will come out of it. Your job will be to teach her everything she needs to know."

Peterson did his best to hide his apprehension. "Yes, sir."

"Miss Dewberry?"

The woman in question had headphones in her ears and was typing something on her sleek-looking Muggle phone. She was also dressed in attire that any pureblood would have found outrageous. At this point, it was a familiar sight for everyone at the company.

"Miss Dewberry!"

"What?! Oh, hullo, Mr. Peterson." Samantha took her headphones out and laid the phone down on her desk. "What can I do for you?"

A little mollified by the respectful response, he continued in a milder tone. "I just wanted to remind you – yet again – that we do have a dress code here. Business-cut robes are mandatory."

Samantha scowled. "Ugh, those robes are so lame. You purebloods really need to get with the times. It's the 21st century, you know."

Peterson's eyebrow twitched in irritation. "I may have magical parents, but that is completely irrelevant to the matter at hand. As a representative of this company, you have to appear professional and inspire trust in our clients. Your current outfit is completely inappropriate for that purpose."

The girl leaned forward and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Is it because I'm a woman?"

"...I'm sorry?"

"I learned all about it in my Social Studies class, you know," Samantha continued while edging away from him and crossing her hands over her chest. "How men constantly try to police women's bodies. You, sir, need to back off and check your privilege."

Peterson gaped at his charge, having no idea what to say. Her angry glare certainly wasn't helping. "Do remember the dress code next time, Miss Dewberry," he mumbled before bidding a hasty retreat.

As he paused at the door to gather his thoughts, a high-pitched voice reached him from one of the cubicles. His least favorite colleague seemed to be on the phone.

"Hey, Beth, you won't believe what just happened. I've told you about Peterson, right? Yeah, that creepy old dude who's always following me around. He just came up to me to complain about my clothes. What? Yeah, he was totally checking me out, what a fucking perv! Do you think I should, like, complain to the boss?"

He grit his teeth and headed for Fawley's office, mentally cursing Hermione Granger and her diversity policies. Peterson took pride in his work and had never grumbled about his assignments before, but he had to get someone else to fill the role of the girl's minder or it would be the end of him.

"Peterson, what have you done?" Fawley sounded defeated. He had called his assistant as soon as he saw that damned article in the Daily Prophet – the one its subject was currently reading. He could see the younger wizard's face paling rapidly. An appropriate reaction, Fawley thought; considering the political climate, this was an unmitigated disaster for his business.

"These are complete and utter lies, sir!" Peterson squeaked indignantly. "'Constant harassment'? Is that what that witch calls me trying to convince her to dress according to our policy? 'Bloodism in the workplace'? 'Old boys club'? All we did was hire the best talent available – except her, of course!" He stared at his boss with wide eyes, breathing heavily.

"Calm yourself, man."

"I swear, sir, I was never anything but professional and appropriate when dealing with Miss Dewberry. I certainly never called her a – the 'M' word," he lowered his voice at the end. "No matter how much she tested my patience."

"I believe you, Peterson. You have been a true asset ever since you joined this company," the director reassured him.

"Then I'm going to sue for defamation – make the Daily Prophet print a retraction–"

"Even if we get a retraction, it will be after the investigation finishes months later, and in small print at the back of the paper. Our image would be ruined." Sullivan looked at one of his best workers with regret. "I'm afraid that isn't going to be enough."

"What are you saying?" the young man whispered.

"We are going to have to let you go, Peterson. I'm already drafting a statement saying we have zero tolerance for bloodism, to be sent to all major publications as soon as possible. Don't worry, I will make sure to emphasize that there's no proof of your misconduct yet – and the company will surely look good for taking action so swiftly."

"But... What am I supposed to do now, Mr. Fawley?" Peterson sounded lost and betrayed.

"Go through with the defamation suit and try to clear your name. In the meantime, make sure to take the voluntary sensitivity training course at the Ministry. Regardless of the outcome of the investigation, I doubt you will manage get a job in the industry otherwise." Fawley shook his head. "I'm sorry, Peterson. It's either you, or all of us."

The first thing the newly unemployed Arithmancer-slash-manager did was head to the nearest pub and get more drunk than he had ever been before in his short life. A few people had approached him and tried to make conversation, but gave up and left him alone soon enough. Peterson didn't even remember what he said to make them back off so quickly. It didn't matter.

"Fucking Fawley," he slurred as he staggered home in a drunken daze. "Fucking Ministry. Fucking Mudbloods."