A/N: Sometimes I open my tumblr to prompts and this is the product of one of those. Said prompt was "if you're ever in the mood for hogwarts-esque au ft malcolm and clara, consider this a prompt." I did consider it, and it worked, at least more along the lines of a Ministry of Magic AU than a Hogwarts AU because reasons. Don't know if this will continue or not, so for the meantime this is listed as complete.
The Other Director of Communications
It was late at night as Malcolm was working to catch up on his agenda. He had only been at his post for a week and everything was as tiring as he imagined it would be. Shouting more, cussing more, mopping up more messes—it was going to be a thankless job, but he was glad to do it. As long as he got some recognition in the end, it would all be worth it.
"Malcolm? I'm headed home," said a voice from just beyond the opened door at the end of the room. Sam poked her head in and waited for an answer.
"Yeah, go ahead Sammy," he replied. It was nearing eight, which was late enough as it was. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Get some rest, and not just on the sofa," she said before heading off. Sam was turning out to be a great personal assistant, Malcolm had found. She was competent and kind, with the same sort of conviction he possessed. If he didn't already know his actual sister would be offended, he'd say she was like the baby sister he'd always wanted. Ah, fuck it—Sam was his London sister and there was nothing wrong with that.
Time passed. The cleaning crew came in and he introduced himself, apologizing for the mess he left two nights earlier. They too were decent people and shouldn't have felt like they were being used. He was the only used one in the building and part of him would have liked to keep it that way. After they did the vacuuming and left, he continued on, hoping he could get his work done before midnight. No such luck, however, for as he was skimming over a document from two regimes ago, the clock began to chime.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. Counting the number of gongs, he used it as a short break and closed his tired eyes. The following day was going to depend on espresso, he already knew, and he was not looking forward to it.
After the final chime died out, Malcolm opened his eyes to continue working. No, wait, fuck, he needed to stretch. He stood and began to wander around the room, cricking every joint in his body he could. This was going to get very old, very fast.
That was when it happened. The door to his office that he had left open closed on its own, with both locking. He was about to investigate when the window curtains spontaneously drew themselves. Turning around, he tried to figure out who was there, who was playing the prank. Was it Jamie? The wee cunt—he'd have to chew him out later.
Except it wasn't Jamie, as he soon found out; a green lick of flame appeared in the fireplace behind his desk. It grew larger until it was the size of a roaring fire and out of the flame stepped a young woman, who then proceeded to stumble smack into his chair.
"What the…?!" she gasped. Glancing around, her face looked like she was remapping the entire room from scratch. "You redecorated. I don't like it."
"Sorry sweetheart, but I don't like having my back to an open window within sight of a rooftop, if you get the idea," he snarked. "Now what the fuck is going on?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Malcolm Tucker," the woman said. She walked around his desk and held out her hand, which he took and shook cautiously. "My name is Clara Oswald, and I am the Director of Communications for the Minister of Magic."
"The Minister… of… Magic…" he echoed. His eyes flicked from the fireplace back to her and his mind began to race. Had he already jumped off the deep end? Was he still dreaming? Did he die? Was this just his mind telling him he needed a good shag already, considering how fit and gorgeous the short, northern brunette in front of him was? He had been going without for a long time due to work…
"No, you are not imagining things," Clara assured. She sat herself down on one of the large easy-chairs and pulled a long stick from her sleeve. Flicking it in the air, a tea service appeared out of thin air and began to pour itself. "How many lumps?"
"Uh… four…" he replied. Malcolm cautiously sat down and his teacup floated towards him. He stared at it, unsure what to do.
"Don't worry; it's quite safe," she said, taking a sip of her own tea. He tried his and found that it was perfect. "Now, I assume that the Prime Minister told you nothing about the Ministry of Magic?"
"I'd think before tonight I would have written him off as a nutter had he did," he replied.
"Well, I'm here to tell you that there are going to be times where we're working together in the near future," she explained. Clara waved the stick—no, wand—above the service and a couple biscuits settled themselves in each of their saucers. "Now, I can't exactly predict when and to what capacity, but usually the rule is that we see one another before our bosses do. The Minister of Magic really doesn't like to bother the PM unless it's an utmost emergency, but sometimes there are going to be things that you can't exactly safely explain away unless you have the proper story behind it."
"So there's a bunch of magical pissers running around, enough to have their own ministry, and you're the one who needs to sweep shit under the rugs, and sometimes you need my help."
"We will need each other's help, if I'm to be deadly honest," she clarified. "You help me and I help you, though not because we work on a favor system. Occasionally you have to deal with some pranksters releasing hinkypunks into the Tube, while I deal with a Muggle family that accidentally set up their caravan holiday in a centaur grazing ground."
"Muggles…?"
"'Non-magical folk', people like you, most of your staff, the average British citizen. It's not a slur, trust me."
"Wait, most of my staff? Who…?!"
"Samantha Cassidy is what we like to call a 'Muggle-born' witch, or a witch born from two Muggle parents. Mostly the genetic marker for magical competence stays in families, but because there is a long history of Squibs—or non-magic folk born to a witch and wizard—marrying into Muggle communities, the trait occasionally occurs spontaneously within the general population." Clara smiled brazenly as she watched Malcolm's jaw drop lower and lower. "Surprised?"
"My Sam…? A witch…?"
"One of the more competent ones in her level, if I recall correctly," she said. "Sam was a few years under me in school, and I remember her well. Cheerful and friendly and not about to let her magical talent take her away from what she really wanted to do in life."
"So Sam… is a witch…" Malcolm repeated, going slowly. He sipped his tea and furrowed his brow in concentration, feeling like an idiotic pile of shit. "Witches and wizards are everywhere in London, right under my nose, and you're the witch version of me. I'm a Muggle, most people are Muggles, and sometimes Muggles don't have Muggle children. You travel through fireplaces and we'll need to rely on each other in the future for when our societies overlap a bit too much."
"That's about the gist of it, though I do have proper security clearance and can come into Number 10 the normal way," Clara nodded. "I just wanted to make sure that our first meeting was alone, and that no one saw me coming in. It'd be ruinous for the new Director of Communications to have a much-younger woman meeting him in the dead of night at his office of all places."
"That's true," he agreed. He looked at her and frowned inwardly. Yes, she was a bit younger than him. Maybe not by twenty years, but at least fifteen. "Will we see one another often?"
"That depends on who screws up and how," she replied.
"Hopefully it's not me that cocks up—you seem like the kind of person we need more of around here," he said, attempting to regain his cool demeanor. He flashed her a grin and she rolled her eyes, chuckling.
"…and lose one of the few actual brains within the Ministry of Magic? Nice try," she said. "Thank you for allowing this meeting, Mister Tucker, and for believing me so thoroughly and quickly."
"I don't know what the fuck a hacky-puck is, or where to find a centaur, but I'm glad there's someone out there who knows their shit that can help," he said. Malcolm stood up and offered her a hand, which she took. Her fingers were incredibly small and dainty within his own, which made him feel like he nearly shouldn't let go. "So, I'll see you around?"
"You can count on it," Clara said. She let go of his hand and winked at him; with a swish and a flick of her wand she was gone, just as mysteriously as she came.
The only reason he knew that she was even there the following day was waking up on the couch next to her tea service. He picked up one of the delicate cups and looked at the hand-painted lions encompassing it. There was also her lipstick, which made him chuckle slightly. Magic… he knew it.
