Ariadne Sinclair smoothed her palms nervously over her tumbling raven locks, grey eyes for once without the spark of ingenuity or amusement; nervousness shone in the emerald-flecked silver orbs beneath long lashes, and she chewed on her full lower lip as her fingers played absently with a black ringlet falling over her smooth, white shoulder.
She stood up and began to pace around the waiting area, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she passed. Thick, silky sable tresses hung to the middle of her back, and two large, dark expressive eyes stared solemnly back at her, contrasting impressively with her fine-boned, delicate features and pale skin. Her father had many-a-time jested on this appearance, naming her solemly his 'China Doll' as a not so subtle hint to her childish, pink and white face and the lashes and lips that seemed to be painted on to her skin.
That was three years ago, of course – before she found herself worrying over a job interview at the Ministry of Magic, and how she was going to survive in the dog-eat-dog world of magic and wizardry.
Sitting back down, Ariadne took another glance around, and came to a summary of her surroundings; purple-hued walls of strange height surrounded her with a claustrophobic feel, an assortment of the mildly-intriguing to the plain weird mingled behind bustling desks and benches, and the shiny plaque set into the doorframe to her right read in ominous black letters – 'Benedict Crinolite' followed by the smaller letters reading 'Head of Muggle Management Affairs'.
Coughing into her fist, Ariadne ruffled the papers on her skirted lap, and found herself pleasantly surprised at the photograph tucked beside her essay on 'Television – the Muggle God?' There she was, smiling gap-toothily away on a summer's night, squashed between her stern mother and jovial father, the Midsummer's Moon crowning their heads with shining halos as they stood outside the Sinclair Mansion.
Ariadne's gaze travelled from her mother's sharply carved visage to her father's florid, laughing one – her mother half-blood Slytherin, her father a true descendant of Hufflepuff. Ariadne touched her slender fingers to her lips and fondly pressed it to Elijah Sinclair's wrinkled brow, leaving a slight stain of crimson lipstick behind.
"Miss Sinclair?" Ariadne snapped to attention at the sound of the wizard's voice, a emerald-robed Chinese man with a cleft chin. "In here, if you please."
She stood immediately, shaking out the creases in her formal robes, hand jerking instantly into her inside pocket to check for her wand. "Yes, sir."
Ariadne followed him into a spacious, well-lit room where various portraits stared disapprovingly down at her, and a comfortable set of armchairs crowded around a roaring fireplace. A young man no more than nineteen or twenty perused a sheaf of documents at the desk, with a decidedly attractive visage that was marked by a furrowed pair of jetty eyebrows and a slim, almost feminine build. He looked up at their entrance, and his serene hazel eyes churned endlessly like pools of raging sienna ocean.
Glancing down, Ariadne concentrated on a blot of ink on her fingernail, furiously trying to hide the utter confusion she felt when she looked into her future bosses whirling eyes. What sort of a spell would cause a young man, no, ANYONE, to have such an affliction on their sight? True, it was undeniably hypnotizing – but there was no doubt that Mr Crinolite was sure to cause a few disruptions in her already disheveled life.
"Miss Sinclair, I presume?"
"Yes, sir."
"A pleasure, I'm sure. Won't you have a seat?"
His voice was curious in the least – a whispering, almost purring tone, velveteen but slightly hoarse, like the wind gusting through the stoic oak copses in the Sinclair gardens. Crinolite tapped his wand, a thick black beast with veins of copper-red bunched at the core, murmuring something under his breath. Ariadne could hardly stop herself from jumping violently as one of the armchair zoomed out from the fireplace and scooped her up from under her feet, seating her in front of Crinolite.
"T-thankyou," Ariadne stuttered, assembling herself upright. "I..." she took a breath. "I am here to accept the position of Muggle Management Affairs Senior Officer that you offered on May 28th, concerning the well-being and media control of Muggles in the district of England."
A thin smile danced about Crinolite's lips and he leaned forward, steepling his fingers under his chin.
"Go on."
Her hands shook impercepitbly as she passed over her portfolio, reading out the list of ample acheivements and grades listed on the file tacked to the portfolio back.
"Beauxbatons?" Crinolite prompted, brow arching. Clearing her throat, Ariadne recited the speech concerning the matter she had practised for days on end prior to the interview.
"I was transferred from Beauxbatons to Hogwarts at the age of fifteen, preceeding my OWL examinations, of course. This was due to the death of my mother, a native Frenchwoman who of course had me sent to Beauxbatons for the bulk of my education. My father was the forefront for the rest of my education at Hogwarts – he himself spent his entire magical education at the school itself."
"Your father was of pureblood blood status, Hufflepuff, am I correct?" Crinolite did not bother to trouble himself checking. "Yes, sir. My mother –"
"I did not ask for your mother's blood status, Miss Sinclair." Crinolite snapped, suddenly irritated. Ariadne was stunned into silence as he massaged his temples for a few moments, resting his elbows heavily on the desk.
"I apologise," he said finally, the scarlet threads that had appeared, glowing in his eyes, dissapearing. "I merely wish for frankness. Am I clear, Miss Sinclair?"
Ariadne nodded, but inside her mind was seething. What does this man think he is? Some sort of Maharaja, ordering me about? I am not a pupil at his disposal!
Pushing aside her misgivings, she nodded and recoiled slightly as he stood.
"You shall be fine, for this job, Ariadne."
Once again, she was surprised. Firstly, for his use of her first name. Secondly, for his sudden decision. Wasn't there supposed to be a longer trial, of some sort? Some sort of charm practise, or disarming match?
"But –"
"I shall hope to see you Monday morning, sharp." Crinolite interrupted. "There shall be no lateness, am I understood? Good. We are currently in place of capturing Sirius Black, the serial killer. Various Muggles are convinced of his sightings – we need them to be neutralised. Be there, Miss Sinclair."
And with that ominious tone, Ariadne was dismissed from the erratic Benedict Crinolite's office and was sat at home, some hours later, thinking over what for good Merlin's sake had just happened.