Well, this was awkward.

Ben had not exactly expected this meeting to be pleasant, given the subject matter. He was petitioning to have his rights to requisition portkeys reinstated, after several years of having to acquire them through the Black Market (not a detail he planned to mention during this meeting) or else leave England, whenever he chose to do so, by flying for several hours across the Channel and into France and then trying to go somewhere from there. It was terribly inconvenient — and aside from being illegal, black market portkeys were also of questionable trustworthiness. Now that he had a wife to look after, it seemed irresponsible to roll the dice on his safety any time he wanted to go abroad. Particularly when the direction his job had taken, after his impromptu trip to Paris, would see him going abroad much more frequently to maintain this new contract with the Parisienne champagne purveyor.

He was very well aware, however, that he hadn't exactly done anything to prove he could be trusted with portkeys since they had been taken away from him for irresponsible usage several years ago. So he had expected to have to beg, and he had expected it to be painful. He had not expected to have to beg from Julius Scrimgeour, who was probably under the impression (along with half of Britain) that Ben had slept with his sister, and that that had been the impetus for their father spiraling off the rails and into Azkaban.

Not that it was Ben's fault Argus Scrimgeour was patently insane, but. Well, probably best to avoid bringing it up, if he could manage it.

"So the ban has been in place for nearly three years," Ben said awkwardly as the man across the table flipped through his appeal package. "And there were just the two incidents, initially."

What else was he supposed to say here? And I promise not to do it again? Merlin.

Julius Scrimgeour