His office could easily be mistaken for a broom-closet if one didn't know better. By no means in terms of size, for the sleek expanse of the room was ridiculous, but because of the broomsticks displayed on the walls like trophies. Banishing or burning those old models, the ones people found in the attic, was in Jason Stonem's opinion the very height of foolishness. True, they moved slowly and listlessly, no match even for Jay's first broom- his grandfather's Bluebottle. But collectors paid a pretty galleon for the right antique brooms, especially Cleansweeps or Comets. Having the brooms that lined the walls on the sports lawyer's office appraised would have brought in an obscene amount of gold- enough to replace each broom on the wall with ten new Firebolts.
But Jason didn't keep them for their flying use, and despite his wife refusing to set foot in his office 'on principle' and calling him an 'insufferable hoarder,' he kept them for their value, for their history.
He owned the brooms of Valmai and Wilder- the best female players in the league in the 1920s. They were friends once, before Winda had slept with Ivan Vulchanov- the dashing Bulgarian National Team player, and Valmai's husband at the time. That was before Wilda had abandoned the Harpes for Puddlemere, where she'd flown miserably and subsequently committed suicide. Before Vulchanov- in retaliation- had beaten his ex-wife Valmai to death with her own broom.
The broom now displayed on Jason's wall.
He glanced at it fondly that evening, as he paced the large room which overlooked E14. The London skyline was lit up with Christmas lights which made him sigh. Working on Christmas Eve was something he swore he'd never do- something he'd promised Clara. Yet here he was, as suited and stern faced as every other day of the year. He took three long, sloping steps towards his chair and sat- staring blankly at the quick notes quill poised and ready to write the statement.
For a moment he considered what his home looked like, what his wife and children would be doing, and he considered his earliest memory of Christmas. It involved him running to the lawn, his new broom in his hand and a trail of wrapping paper in his wake, demanding that the entire household came and played Quidditch with him.
It was the first time he saw his older brother smile in a way that was genuine, before Tobias had sat crossed legged on a blanket he had brought out with him. Tobias had known he would never be allowed to play- or to be near something as dangerous as a broomstick. He had simply watched Jay squealing with delight while their parents took up the rather more arduous task of restraining Keira, who wanted to play but was too young, and refereeing the match being played between Jason and the legions of house elves who had been summoned.
That wasn't to say that Tobias was any less enthusiastic from the side-lines and about half way through the match he and their father had ended up arguing about whether Jay had committed a foul or not when he had momentarily grabbed a handle of one of the house elves' brooms to stop himself from falling.
Of course, in his rage, Tobias had caused a house elf to fly into a tree using only his power of will, after which the game had to be abandoned. The rest of the memory was now very hazy, but Jason remembered his father's cool reserve all gone in a moment as he locked Tobias in a body-binding curse and dragged him back into Stonem manor, shouting merry hell about how they should have left the oldest Stonem sibling in Mungos for Christmas and that he would be straight back in the morning.
The quick notes quill dropped to the page, assuming redundancy, causing Jason to clear his throat and stir it back to life.
"Memo from the office of Jason Lucas Stonem, Founding Partner at Stonem and Chang law firm, Canary Wharf to the office of Barnabus Cuffe, Editor of the Daily Prophet, Diagon Alley. Status:" he sighed, scratching his chin and shaking his head before lying through his teeth, "Status: confidential, priority.
I don't think it necessary to inform you RE: Mr Malfoy's autobiography, or the expected public response. I trust you have already done what is necessary to protect my client. Please have your office send me a copy of the official statement for release to the press. The Potter family will compensate you for your troubles. I am sorry that it should come to this.
It is with a heavy heart that my client, Ginevra Molly Potter resigns from her position of Senior Quidditch correspondent at your company, The Daily Prophet following the accusations made by former Death Eater Draco Malfoy about her, quote, promoting suspicions about Death Eaters, end quote in her articles. There are those who will take this resignation as incontrovertible proof of her guilt and to them there is nothing to be said. Mrs Potter wishes the following to the published in the Prophet to assuage her own conscience, as well as for the future of the sport.
Is Mrs Potter still suspicious of Death Eater activity? That is undoubtedly the question preying on everyone's minds as they read Mr Malfoy's book. Let me turn the question on its head- are there any of us who do not still suspect Death Eater activity? Let me assure you that every statement Mrs Potter has only ever been sport related. If you were to ask my client if she would phrase any of her articles differently then she would not.
Her resignation has been long overdue. She feels Mr Malfoy's autobiography release has served as the opportune time. She is an upstanding woman, with an acute understanding of international sporting politics and has always represented the interests of the player and their fans. She is quote, sick and bloody tired, end quote of being in the public eye and wishes to focus on her family.
I trust that you will take appropriate action and respond-"
He wasn't sure if it was the spiel of nonsense coming from his mouth, or the clock in the office chiming nine o'clock that made him stop. Bed time. Issac and Isabelle would be fighting their sleepiness with excitement. Issac no doubt would have bargained an extra half-hour because 'he was the eldest' and Isabelle would have insisted on staying awake, refusing to put out snacks for Santa Claus because 'Daddy promised he'd be home.'
They both stared at him adoringly from the photograph on his desk. Watching how the animated pair waved at the camera and how his wife's blonde hair blew across her face in the wind, Jay stood up suddenly. Fuck. This.
He'd been ecstatic when he'd poached Ginny as a client, back when she played for the Harpies. Now, her and her husband- who acted like he hated the press, but had specifically requested (only hours ago) his wife's resignation be in the Christmas edition of the Prophet, could both go to hell.
He let the quill drop again and strode to the fireplace, taking a fistful of Floo-powder he stepped into the fireplace and let it take him where he belonged.