17th May, 1889 — Ministry of Magic
So this was his life now.
And he was trying to take it with grace. To find the silver linings, even though it felt as though he'd lost a limb or two since the quidditch season had drawn to a close. Both his broom and his bat were tucked away in his wardrobe in his room; he'd had to shut them up in there so he didn't have to see them, forlornly gathering dust.
But he was learning new skills and talents here, too, Tybalt reminded himself. Proving he could be useful for more than swatting bludgers. He'd always liked duelling, back in school. There was still an element of competition in it. Some creativity. Fun. Perhaps he could make sure the next tournament was held at the Howlers' pitch, like the last one had been: an excuse to visit again.
And in the meantime, he could be proud of his accomplishments. The world of paperwork was a denser maze than he'd ever envisioned - whoever had called it mindless work had not considered the effort of keeping one's mind focused on forms, now had they? - and Tyb had spent the best part of his Friday putting the finishing touches on a thick wad of forms he hadn't even known the purpose of at the week's start. That was something, wasn't it?
Letting that haze of satisfaction surround him, Tybalt pushed up from his desk (his work desk! a more intimidating beast than the table in his room, or the specimens he remembered back at school) and trotted out of the department, stack of paperwork floating at his side as he had seen the Serious Professionals often do. (See, the Ministry was already more exciting than it had seemed: at Hogwarts they hadn't been supposed to do magic in the corridors, ha.) And a whole day of not making a single mistake, that too was something, one that had been similarly rare at school.
He felt rather like a Prefect, marching through the door to the office wherein he had been tasked with leaving the forms, proud of his accomplishments. He might have plucked the wad of papers from the air and set them in a neat pile by hand, but Tyb was too excited to put away his wand, and instead sent the paperwork to the desk with a flick and an extra flourish.
An extremely stupid extra flourish. Tybalt gazed as the stack of floating paperwork landed, pristine, squarely in the centre of the recipient's desk. And promptly burst into flames.
And he was trying to take it with grace. To find the silver linings, even though it felt as though he'd lost a limb or two since the quidditch season had drawn to a close. Both his broom and his bat were tucked away in his wardrobe in his room; he'd had to shut them up in there so he didn't have to see them, forlornly gathering dust.
But he was learning new skills and talents here, too, Tybalt reminded himself. Proving he could be useful for more than swatting bludgers. He'd always liked duelling, back in school. There was still an element of competition in it. Some creativity. Fun. Perhaps he could make sure the next tournament was held at the Howlers' pitch, like the last one had been: an excuse to visit again.
And in the meantime, he could be proud of his accomplishments. The world of paperwork was a denser maze than he'd ever envisioned - whoever had called it mindless work had not considered the effort of keeping one's mind focused on forms, now had they? - and Tyb had spent the best part of his Friday putting the finishing touches on a thick wad of forms he hadn't even known the purpose of at the week's start. That was something, wasn't it?
Letting that haze of satisfaction surround him, Tybalt pushed up from his desk (his work desk! a more intimidating beast than the table in his room, or the specimens he remembered back at school) and trotted out of the department, stack of paperwork floating at his side as he had seen the Serious Professionals often do. (See, the Ministry was already more exciting than it had seemed: at Hogwarts they hadn't been supposed to do magic in the corridors, ha.) And a whole day of not making a single mistake, that too was something, one that had been similarly rare at school.
He felt rather like a Prefect, marching through the door to the office wherein he had been tasked with leaving the forms, proud of his accomplishments. He might have plucked the wad of papers from the air and set them in a neat pile by hand, but Tyb was too excited to put away his wand, and instead sent the paperwork to the desk with a flick and an extra flourish.
An extremely stupid extra flourish. Tybalt gazed as the stack of floating paperwork landed, pristine, squarely in the centre of the recipient's desk. And promptly burst into flames.
