Cash hated the Ministry. He hated working at the Department of Magical Games & Sports. Whenever he spoke with Quidditch players, he violently missed flying. Whenever he bothered to take his broom out for a flight after work — an expensive Quidditch broom, the kind for a professional player — he found himself wondering what's the fucking point. He was a washed-up Quidditch player in a department full of washed-up Quidditch players, and all day he wished he was anywhere else.

Sometimes he went to the break room to see if that would help. It usually didn't, so today he went to a break room on a different floor — he doubted that anyone would notice his absence, and if they did, it was not as if they would say anything.

He hadn't realized which floor he was on until Ford walked in. Cash bit the inside of his lip. They hadn't talked since their fight in July — Ford hadn't shown up to Black's the next Monday, and Cash left shortly after their designated meeting time. He hadn't seen Ford in Black's since. And Ford had been at the wedding, but they hadn't talked then, and now they were at the Ministry and not talking, and maybe they could just get through this whole break room thing and never talk again —

and that thought was so dire that Cash moved to give Ford more space on his way to the kettle, but he still said, "Afternoon." His own tea was still steeping. They could at least have a few words, in the minutes they had in here together.

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