One of Gideon's top skills had always been his charisma, his ability to make himself shine. He had decided that the Ministry needed to comment about its operations that had been raised recently. If he were going to bother with it, then he certainly wasn't interested in fiddling with any old journalistic hack. No, no.
Gideon wanted someone who understood the seriousness, the commitment that wizardry needed to have for tradition, the old ways. Someone raised properly. He had had stacks of messages and owls and letters requesting an interview, including a raft of them from the reporter he had chosen to allow--Pansy Parkinson-Nott. Nott--(oh, lord, Parkinson-Nott--Must get it right)--was a proper Slytherin, from the old ways. A woman who understood the proper order of things. That served him.
He had taken great pains to restore, as an ongoing process, the Ministry to the glory that it had seen before Robert Lupin had insisted on what Robert had called "becoming down to earth." Lupin's greatest flaw, as Gideon saw it, was that he was too damned approachable. He was, after all, a farmer. He had no great estate, although he had great wealth. Lupin never wore the time honored wizarding robes. He wore very practical business suits, and it was the same sets of suits he wore when he worked with "them" at the hospital. When he worked with people who either bled or puked all over him. Revolting, Gideon thought.
Gone was the clean, simple lined furniture, the comforting artwork, the bloody little fish that Melissa had on her desk. He'd simply killed the bright little happy fish, and then had told the ditsy blond that he was truly sorry for her distress. He was considering keeping his promise about replacing the fish, but he was looking at piranhas, honeslty.
He had gone back to elegant antiques, things that were ornate and impressive, heavy dark fabrics, and sculpture and artwork worthy of museums. Lupin's office was empty. Locked. Gideon had had the "homey" furnishings stripped out of it, and he had furniture to his own personal tastes on order to restore that space as well.
He had sent Melissa a memo reminding her that he would not allow nicknames. She would not be Millie anymore here. She would be Melissa or Mrs Hayes. She would dress appropriately in the required robes of her station.
He had ordered Melissa to prepare a proper formal English tea and to have it ready for elevenses, when Parkinson-Nott was due to arrive. He had insisted it be flawless, and he himself was impeccably dressed in the sleek black robes trimmed in black satin that was appropriate to the highest officials in the government. Propriety was everything. He checked his gold pocketwatch, flipped the case shut and put it back in his vest pocket. If she were on time, she would be arriving soon.