Everything HP related is copyright to Queen Rowling, I own none of it.
Another day, another knut.
Macnair rocked back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head, staring wistfully outside the one round window in his otherwise gloomy office. It was charmed to look like usual London weather- dreary and raining, though not altogether unpleasant, being a far sight better than staring at four walls. He finds himself wishing he was out in that rain slaughtering "dangerous" magical creatures rather than sitting behind the slab of wood he called his desk with stacks and stacks of paperwork to file, but such is life.
His reverie is quickly cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps and Macnair leans forward, propping his elbows on his desk, a scowl at the ready on his broad face. A thin, pockmarked youth pokes his head around the door uncertainly, obviously having heard the rumors of Macnair's foul temper, eyes darting about anxiously. "If you're looking for my axe, it's not even within arm's length of me." He snaps irritably, eyes flicking over to where his most prized possession hung on the wall.
"What? Oh, n-no sir. I just have a note from, uh…" The youth pauses, squinting at the envelope in his hands, clearly having forgotten who it was from. Macnair snorts derisively, and stands, covering the distance between his desk and the door in a few, long strides, positively looming over the twitchy messenger. The youth's eyes remained glued to the ground, sweat forming on his upper lip as he holds out the envelope with a shaking hand. He darts away as soon as the envelope is passed on, door banging shut behind him, cheeks red with embarrassment, standing out starkly against his otherwise milk-white complexion.
Oh how Macnair enjoyed the sense of fear and trepidation he triggered in all creatures, humans included.
Something resembling, but too horrible to be, a smile crosses Macnair's face as he strolls back to his desk, pausing to run a hand over the smooth handle of his axe before settling himself comfortably in his chair once more. He finds himself pondering over what could possibly be in this note that couldn't be sent in a memo- it had to be some sort of delicate information that someone wouldn't want intercepted. His ego inflates a bit as he muses about how valuable he is, convincing himself that this letter had to be filled with praises and promotion offers.
But the smug confidence plastered on his face as he opens the letter slides off his face like stinksap, leaving a curled lip and blazing eyes in its place.
Macnair,
As one of the top executioners in the Department for Disposal of Dangerous Magical Creatures, I hold you to the highest standard and oft sing of your praises.
So please explain to me how you botched up the hush-hush execution of the rampaging Hippogriff in Green Meadows in Belfast so badly that six Muggles were witness and filed reports with the Muggle police involving a "mad-man with an axe" and a "strange winged horse-bird?" It took 4 Obliviators to track down all the Muggles and their policemen, quite an embarrassment.
Another mistake like this Macnair, and you'll be serving my coffee- black with a shot of espresso, for future reference- in place of Feldman, that hopeless young man who delivered this for me, and still can't remember my name.
-Armand Loftwood
Bloody Hippogriffs.
He'd be sure never to botch an execution of one of those ever again.
With an undignified snort, he crumples up the note into a ball and tosses it into the wastebin beside his desk, which fills with flames at the contact that disappear with a burping sound, leaving behind nothing but ash. Muttering something about "stupid Muggles" and "useless bosses" Macnair pushes himself away from his desk, standing up and stretching, the tips of his fingers nearly touching the ceiling.
Though he didn't really feel like seeing his fellow ministry workers- when did he ever- his hunger drives him to leave his dark office, a scowl at the ready on his face to deter anyone from attempting to talk to him. People skirt out of his way as he marches down the halls, shooting furtive glances up at him, but not saying a word. Macnair stretches up taller, chest puffed with pride at the thought of the influence he had over these sheep-like witches and wizards- spineless worms the lot of them, as far as he was concerned.
He nearly runs into one of them- a lanky fellow with a few sparse ginger hairs on his head, and an air of shabbiness and cheer about him, evident in his careworn robes and pleasant smile. Macnair glares at him, looking affronted, fingers clenching and unclenching as he struggles to control his temper. The red-haired man blinks up at him in surprise, his smile faltering a little, saying nothing as he steps around Macnair, knowing that his best course of action was clearly just to avoid confrontation.
Macnair nearly reaches out to grab him by the neck of the robes so that he might unleash his boiling temper on him, but his rumbling stomach prompts him to just let it go and continue on his way, nose wrinkled in disgust as he brushes non-existent dirt off of his robes, as though they'd been tainted by the shabby wizard whom he recognized as part of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department.
The sort that opted to work with Muggles in any positive capacity should not be allowed to mingle with the rest of the wizarding population, let alone work at the Ministry of Magic.