Sales Tactics

Euphemia Fudge-Bagman straightened in the comfortable salon chair to ease the kink in her back. Madam Angelina herself was finger-waving her gold-frosted locks, with the same expertise she used to thread her broomstick between defenders on the Quidditch pitch.

"And how is the team doing, my dear?" Madam Fudge-Bagman addressed Angelina's reflection in the mirror in her trademark queenly baritone. Euphemia couldn't ever be interested in Quidditch, no matter what her husband said. All that head-turning tended to mess with her carefully managed coiffure, and following the fast-paced loops and dives, passes and interceptions had given her whiplash more than once. But it paid to act interested in the constituents' little hobbies. It made her seem more generous and down-to-earth--and saved on tips too.

Angelina flashed her a dazzling smile. "We tied for first as of Thursday night, Miz E. We're in the thick of it now. I told you we'd be all right once Oliver Wood got off the injured reserves."

A squat, blonde shampoo girl next to her chimed in, "And it didn't hurt that you were dead-on in all your throws, Miss Angie. Three scores and ten assists. That's got to be your best showing yet."

"Yeh, that and a trick wand'll get me a cuppa coffee," returned Angelina, sceptically. "The coach still isn't convinced I can give him a full game, so when Pucey gets off probation for turning that ref into a bat, I'll be back on the bench. But it'll give me more time to keep your hair up to par, won't it, Miz E.?"

Euphemia chuckled indulgently. Angelina was a lovely witch, smarter than most, and ambitious. She'd go far. It was a shame she'd married that noxious Weasley boy. One of the twins, she'd heard. Her brother Cornelius had been most perturbed by their machinations their last year at Hogwarts. Oh well, Angelina Johnson was still the hottest stylist around, and as long as she was, Miz E. would burn no bridges that led to her shop, whatever her husband thought.

Now, ensconced under the magi-dryer, she stretched her rubenesque body to pick up a copy of Witch Weekly and that convenient tin of chocoballs from the low table in front of her. Lately she was feeling the tiniest prickings of the boredom that often plagued politically savvy wives of Ministry officials. Bland rags like Witch Weekly and Speller's Digest, were an ideal outlet for her social conscience. Often she'd find a worthy cause highlighted in one of those magazines that was crying out for an influential sponsor or spokeswitch. She was on more Boards of Trustees than she could name, and her donations made for the best kind of publicity.

Merlin knew they needed it after that last scandal. She still winced reflexively, thinking about it. Her husband had made one gaffe after another since his return to the Ministry in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The last Bundimun in the rafters was when he suggested Dolores Umbridge be appointed to help the vampires of eastern Europe to form their own Quidditch League. Euphemia could have told her husband what that would lead to, having herself been a classmate of the bigoted sow.

It was no wonder that soon afterwards, Minister Shacklebolt threatened him with demotion to the Centaur Liaison Office. Euphemia had blanched under her perfectly applied make-up when she heard that. It was supposed to be the political kiss-of-death to be sent to the CLO. But Ludo, chastened, had apologized, kept his head down, and worked hard—they both had. She helped by using her family's influence, throwing parties, calling in a lot of old favours, and gulping down generous helpings of humble pie.

Only this year had her husband finally managed to work his way back to some sort of political legitimacy as first assistant to the head of the Being Division in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, not that he knew anything about the subject. But that was what out-sourcing was for.

But he still didn't have much common sense. Look at the way he let himself get caught out at that party a few weeks ago! Euphemia forgave him of course; he just didn't know it yet. There were still a few perks to be squeezed out of her embarrassed and contrite husband. She'd already wangled a Christmas luncheon at the Ministry in her honour, complete with her favourite fireworks. But there was still that one-of-a-kind Nundu fur coat she'd seen in Gladrags… the Moke-skin purse… the Clabbert-pustule jewellery… that darling hat with the Fwooper plumes… and yes, the carpet cruise to Bali… Fireball hide pumps… oceans of Chocoballs…

She forced herself to focus on her magazine. This copy happened to be open to an article about the plight of werewolves in England. She'd never thought of them as needing help -- such fierce, dangerous beasts they were -- but the slant of the story intrigued her. Halfway through it, she sighed uneasily. This writer made a great case. Yes, lycanthropy could happen to anyone; yes, it was not their fault; yes, they were still humans -- most of the time. But really -- werewolves! The very thought of clasping one to her bosom -- even figuratively -- in the name of equality and friendship made her break out in hives.

She read the byline: Hermione Granger-Weasley. What? Another Weasley? She wondered aloud if Angelina knew her.

"Of course," said Angelina, who had appeared out of nowhere to check the temperature of Euphemia's coiffure under the dryer. She prattled on that everyone knew Hermione Granger, the top mage in her year at Hogwarts with more OWLs and NEWTs even than Percy Weasley.

Madam Fudge-Bagman knew that name, her brother's former assistant, an upstanding young man, though a tad ambitious for his caste.

"Are they cousins?" Euphemia queried.

"Oh no, Hermione married into the family. And since school, she's thrown all her energies into working for the down-trodden."

Madam Fudge-Bagman sighed again, sympathetically this time.

~*~

It was here that Angelina saw her opening.

Professional Quidditch players must have a sixth-sense for making the right moves to score a goal, and Angelina's was working overtime today. She moved right in to feed Madam Fudge-Bagman salient facts about Hermione's many projects. She steered Euphemia's thoughts away from the controversial topic of Lycanthrope rehabilitation to more obviously noble, cuddly, and pathetic subjects like Centaurs forced into quarantine, Puffskeins used as "the jack" in lawn bowling, and displaced house-elves driven to drink and dissipation. Then she blocked doubts concerning Hermione's inexperience and threw in an opinion that Hermione could save Bagman's department money every year, because she could be counted on to manage her caseload with energy, passion, and thrift. She dodged the issue of Ron's faux pas with the photographs and tackled the question of fair remuneration for outsourcing in general, all the while noting Madam Fudge-Bagman's reactions like a Chaser reads a Keeper's eyes as she closes in for a shot on goal.

After work, she ticked Madam Fudge-Bagman off her list of to-dos and headed for home. She had dodged, feinted, and chucked the ball quite neatly, she thought, with only a few minor fouls along the way. She could only hope for a score. And she wondered how the men were making out with their part of George's plan.