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Percy felt especially harried. Being recruited back to the Ministry just weeks after he tendered his resignation made him feel almost as foolish as working for the corrupt government to begin with. He knew truly that Kingsley Shacklebolt would prove to be an excellent Minister, interim or otherwise – because he had an inkling, come election time, the Wizengamot (or what remained of them) would push to extend his term – but he had his reservations. Shacklebolt trusted him, though, somehow, and despite Percy’s feelings of shame and, frankly, bafflement, he knew this new Ministry rising from the ashes of the old would need someone with experience in several areas Percy so happened to possess. He knew the schedule and going’s on of the Minister, had built rapport with the muggle Prime Minister of Great Britain, and he possessed the knowledge and sheer willpower to keep the Minister’s office running as smoothly as possible. And so he had grudgingly returned to the office of the Minister for Magic “on a temporary basis, of course.”) which, as the first Yuletide holidays approached under the new administration, was proving to run him ragged. There were two weeks left in the year and the Minister’s office was juggling proposals for several social programs aimed to offer aid to misplaced wizards and their families, suitable work for those left without a job and medical treatment for those suffering physical and mental injuries. The stacks of parchment in Percy’s arms threatened to overwhelm his grasp as he strode from the Ministry lift at level five, the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
Percy rounded a corner and nearly ran smack into someone else, barely dodging them at the last second but dropping a few files in the process; Percy lunged for them, but to no avail, and he felt his glasses slip low on his nose as parchment rained around him like falling snow. A gasp came from the person he’d nearly collided with – a short witch with dark hair he vaguely recognized from the International Office of Law – and she hastily drew her wand from her robes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, flicking it once, and the scattered sheets of parchment returned to their appropriate files, which stacked themselves neatly in her arms.
She offered them to Percy, who blinked at her once before his brain stuttered back to life. “Quite alright,” he bit out, carefully taking the files from her outstretched hand whilst keeping his arms securely around the rest gripped against his chest. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, which sent a tingle up Percy’s forearm that he desperately wished to push away, as he needed to get these to Sellick’s desk, but her fingertips didn’t separate from his. He watched her brow furrow, and looked down to their hands to see their fingertips touching; Percy wiggled his fingers experimentally and found the woman’s remained attached to his, as if bound somehow.
“Are you doing that?” she asked after a moment, and it sounded as though she were speaking from far away, like an echo inside a tunnel; Percy shook his head as though trying to clear water from his ears.
“No, of course not,” he snapped, impatient, raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. He had no less than seven proposals that required authorization and he didn’t have the time for Ministry lackeys with doe eyes, up to some sort of hijinks or pranks... the woman’s brows furrowed further, and he realized absently he might have muttered the last bit out loud. He cleared his throat. No matter. He attempted to take a step back, which merely jerked the woman forward as if he’d pulled her along; she collided bodily with him, hand landing on his upper arm to brace herself, her chest pressed against where his arms were secured around his documents.
“Is this... some sort of sticking charm?” she huffed out, seeming to struggle against him. He felt a tug at his bicep where her fingers wrapped around it, stuck by the same force; her other hand was trapped between them, fingers still curled around his. Her eyes were wide, and she panted hot breath in his face.
Percy found he had no voice to respond; this was the closest contact he’d had with a person in ages, and he felt hot under the collar. He forced his gaze away from hers self consciously, and his eyes conveniently fell upon the source of their predicament.
“Ah… Mistletoe,” he huffed out, and her gaze followed his to the sprig of green hanging above them. “Viscum album,” he rattled off from memory, speech fuelled by the sudden onslaught of nerves, “of the family Santalacae.”
The woman’s blue eyes returned to Percy, a mixture of fascination and calculation. “S’that so?” She breathed.
Percy gulped. “The ancient Greeks believed it allowed their heroes access to the underworld. It… it is more commonly used, in our world, for its healing properties, as an ingredient in Deflating Draught.”
The woman hummed once. “Might there be another common use?” the woman asked, and Percy blinked to be sure he wasn’t imagining the cheeky grin tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Some English customs,” he said faintly, “dating back to the 16th century, though not recorded as common practice until 1808 –”
Tightening her grip on his bicep, the woman used her leverage to surge forward and press a kiss against Percy’s lips, ceasing his speech. He made a rather embarrassing noise in the back of his throat, quite like a pathetic, surprised moan, and all too soon the mistletoe’s effects were gone, and the woman removed herself from where she had been pressed against Percy, taking a few steps backwards, cheeks pink and hands wringing together before her.
“I suppose I’ll just,” she muttered, jerking her head at the corridor in the direction Percy had just come. “Erm. Merry Christmas.” And with that, she was gone almost as quickly as she appeared. Percy watched her go, mouth slightly agape; he felt all the files slowly slip from his grasp, and the swoosh of them exploding on the floor around him echoed in the empty corridor.