Hello, me again! Just here to wish you all luck deciphering my title…I was flipping through the dictionary today for homework, and…this is the result. Let's see, the direct translation is:

-Sophomoric: (adj.) Like, or characteristic of sophomores, who are often regarded as self-assured and opinionated, yet also immature.

-Contentions: (n.) The act of contending; strife, struggle, controversy, dispute, quarrel, etc.

I thought this was a fairly accurate analysis of the Ministry of Magic during, well…let's face it, all of Harry's life. But for our purpose today, Harry's 4th year of school.

The story takes place in, you guessed it, Harry's 4th year, and is focused around an original character within the ministry. Sorry folks, there is no romance, and no canon characters, except perhaps Percy Weasley, and Fudge. Don't let that distress you though! There are also no Mary-Sues or Gary-Sues. So, please give it a chance. It is, after all, only an oneshot, so it won't waste too much time of your life.

A bent and wrinkled old man muttered obscenities to himself while attempting to maneuver his chair out of the crawlspace the Minister of Magic seemed to think was a suitable office. The withered wizard chuckled bitterly to himself as his wooden chair caught on the rug and then tipped him over into his filing cabinet. Granted, he knew that his position heading the Department of the Misuse of Muggles was a bit obscure, but dammit it was vital to the Ministry!

Lifting himself off of his F files, he groaned at the tell-tale pain in his right knee.

Damn Arthritis…

The geezer limped out of the room and gave curt nods to the other two workers in the department, who unbelievably had smaller cubicles than his own. But hey, he deserved it, he thought with a smirk. After all, he was management…And he had been handling his overload of work quite well, frankly with all that Death Eater business, so…yes, he decided. A coffee was definitely called for at the moment.

Humming cheerily, the bent figure pressed the button for the elevator and tapped his foot in time to the Christmas music echoing throughout the hall.

"Mr. Crochet! A word please…"

Said Mr. Crochet flinched and ceased humming immediately, turning to gaze into the dreaded horn-rimmed glasses of Percy Weasley.

Damn…

"Weasley," he acknowledged with a nod, "Need something?"

Percy huffed indignantly, and thrust an overstuffed folder into Crochet's unsteady arms.

"You will refer to me as Mr. Weasley, thank you."

Crochet resisted the urge to roll his eyes- give the bastard a fancy title like Junior Assistant to the Minister, and he began thinking he was Fudge himself.

"What's with the folder, Mister Weasley?"

Percy frowned at the blatant mockery and glared accusingly at Crochet, "You're last report," he yanked the folder away from the man and shook it in his face, "What is the meaning of this, Crochet?"

Crochet blinked incredulously at the red-head- could the bastard not read? How he got such a high position in the Ministry was beyond him…

"Well, it's pretty simple. Death Eater activities at last month's Quiddich final left around a dozen muggles-"

"This- this! This is what I meant!" Percy cast the old man a glance that only began to portray his pity at the man's senility.

"Surely Crochet, you don't believe the Death Eaters are active?"

The aged wizard squinted into the glare of the fluorescent lights that lit the hallway. Was this a trick question? Of course they were, there had been witnesses, after all…

"Um, yes?"

Percy sighed and massaged his temples wearily, "Crochet you work for the Ministry. We do not condone such outlandish rumors. Change the report or-" he paused, searching for the right word. Somehow "die" seemed a bit melodramatic. "Or, we will find someone more compatible with Ministry standards to replace you."

Crochet stared slack-jawed at the former intern. However, fury overcame surprise.

"And what should I say, eh? The muggles decided to set their tents on fire and float for a bit of a thrill?"

Percy looked down in thought, as if considering the absurdity a possible solution, "Perhaps…"

"Weasley," he shouted, attracting the stares of his co-workers, "Muggles don't float!"

Brown eyes behind large glasses narrowed at the outburst, "Finished? Just change your report Crochet."

Staring down at the dreaded assignment, the old man sighed and began to limp back to his office. Twisting with a gasp of pain into his chair, he picked up his quill and tapped it on the nearly full piece of parchment, a grim smile gracing his wizened features. It wasn't as if lying in his reports bothered him…well actually it bloody well did! But, he digressed, it was rather amusing.

His excuses were becoming more unbelievable by the day, yet the Minister couldn't seem to get enough of his "intellectual insight into the disappearance, torturing and general making uncomfortable of Muggles by Welsh-Indian-Chinese pixies of the Acaaleani family". If the bastard even cared to look it up, he'd notice that the pixies had died out 30 years ago…and only ate certain species of lettuce, and not to mention, didn't have the mental capacity to inflict pain (the screams hurt their ears).

Well, he thought with a barked laugh, let's see how the Minister likes this one. His smile just a wee bit evil, he jotted down notes in the margins of his original report, crossing out the "utter insanity" he had written earlier.

Fudge glanced down at the report on his freshly-polished desk warily- good god, what had the ding-bat sent him this time? Opening the folder, he gave a pleased sort of mumble at the paragraph or so of crossed out text.

Good, Percy's had another talk to the old coot about the lies he spawns…

Reading the scrunched scribbles, his eyes widened dramatically.

"Weasley! What's this about the Welsh-Indian-Chinese what's-its now going after Muggles with pixie dust? Have they robbed that Pan boy again? Blasted lost boys can't seem to keep track of anything these days…"