Pest Advisory Office

Rufus Scrimgeour.

Head of the Auror Office.

"Murphy." The other man spotted him too, but kept walking.

Murphy hurried forward and fell into step beside him. "Director Scrimgeour, what do you think about what I mentioned last time, joining the Aurors?"

If he had to work at the Ministry of Magic, Murphy actually wanted to become an Unspeakable. The prospect of studying the nature of magic held great appeal for him.

But Unspeakables usually served for life. Becoming one basically meant cutting himself off from the world.

The Aurors were also a good option. As front-line combat personnel, they not only earned better pay, but the work was exciting too.

No matter what, it was far better than his current job.

Scrimgeour walked briskly, his face still taut as he stared straight ahead while speaking.

"I reviewed your school records. They were excellent. Your aptitude test results were good as well, and you're highly proficient with spells. But you cannot become an Auror."

"Why?"

Murphy's eyes widened. He had already been rejected too many times today.

"Your personality assessment didn't pass. You're too impulsive, fond of taking risks, and insufficiently obedient. More importantly, we found that you're full of prejudice and dissatisfaction toward the magical world."

"What? I..."

Scrimgeour abruptly stopped and looked at him. "And your background check didn't pass either. Your parents were Dark wizards. My analysts told me that their influence may be precisely why your personality contains so many dangerous factors."

Murphy was momentarily speechless.

"What we need are loyal warriors. The Auror Office isn't suitable for you. Go do what you should be doing."

As Scrimgeour spoke, he patted Murphy on the shoulder and prepared to leave.

"You mean giving those idiots advice on how to get rid of Gnomes?" Murphy couldn't help snapping.

Scrimgeour turned back and gave him a long, deep look. "Watch yourself."

Background check.

Damn it!

Again!

His application to become an Unspeakable had been rejected for the same reason.

The son of Dark wizards clearly didn't meet the requirements for serving in an important Ministry of Magic department.

Yes, his parents were Dark wizards.

Sanders Darkholm and Natalie Darkholm, two idiots who had dreamed of following the Dark Lord and restoring their family's former glory.

Six years ago, Voldemort fell, and they successfully sent themselves to Azkaban as well.

They died there around three or four years ago.

They hadn't left Murphy much of an inheritance, either.

The Darkholm family had already been destitute by Sanders's generation. After they died, all Murphy inherited, aside from a dilapidated old house full of drafts, was a debt of several hundred Galleons.

Fortunately, most of Sanders's creditors were also in Azkaban, so no one had come after Murphy for repayment.

Murphy had never complained about his origins.

After all, as a transmigrator, parents were probably just background exposition to him.

An orphan?

What transmigrator wasn't an orphan?

Poor?

Wasn't that the classic protagonist opening?

And parents who were Dark wizards?

Cool!

When he was younger at Hogwarts, he had been bullied for a time because he was the son of Dark wizards. But after he broke one leg of every bully in turn, no one dared provoke him again.

It wasn't until after graduation that he once more felt the trouble that came with this identity.

Who would have thought the magical world had political vetting too?

Damn it!

The Aurors were out of the question. Disheartened, Murphy took the lift down to the fourth basement level.

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

The door at the end of the corridor led to the office where Murphy worked.

A few crooked little words were written on the plaque:

"Pest Advisory Office."

Murphy pushed open the door without a shred of enthusiasm and immediately heard an affected voice.

"Oh, the lazy bug finally remembered to come to work. What a pity, though. You're late again."

An irregular sphere wrapped in a frilly sweater let out a barbell-like laugh.

Murphy was briefly dazed.

Huh? Why was the inflated Aunt Marge from the films here?

Fine. This was his immediate superior.

The director of the Pest Advisory Office.

The pest Murphy hated most.

Belinda Pound.

"Fuck!"

Murphy responded with a Chinese character as usual.

"Using that strange language again. Don't think I can't understand you."

"..."

The fat woman swayed over to Murphy, holding a form in her hand. She deliberately drew a large X across it with her pen.

"Another late mark. That's the third one. Guess what? Your attendance rating won't pass at the end of the month..."

"Heh."

"Murphy, what's with that attitude? The director is talking to you!" A gaunt, bald man spoke up as well. "Young people these days, do they have no manners at all?"

This was the second pest Murphy hated most: the deputy director of the advisory office, Staff Moore.

"Belinda, don't be angry. Have a taste of this ginger black tea. I added a drop of Flobberworm mucus. It's good for insomnia. I know you like sweets, so I put in extra sugar cubes."

Staff eagerly handed Belinda a steaming cup of black tea, watching expectantly as she frowned and took a sip.

Flobberworm...

As expected of the deputy director of the Pest Advisory Office. His taste was truly unique.

Murphy decided to ignore the two bizarre creatures making eyes at each other, lest they soil his eyes.

He went to his desk and saw another huge stack of letters piled on it.

As its name implied, the Pest Advisory Office provided wizarding families with consultations and advice on handling pests.

The most common requests were about getting rid of garden Gnomes, with the occasional letter asking how to drive away a lost Ghoul.

More specifically, the job involved replying to wizards who were being harassed by pests.

To Murphy, this work was unbearably dull and tedious. Most of the so-called pest problems in those letters could be solved by anyone with even the slightest knowledge of magical creatures or a little common sense.

At first, Murphy had given fairly detailed replies explaining how to deal with them. But after just one month, he had become thoroughly sick of it, and his replies grew increasingly perfunctory.

These days, he usually dismissed the letters with phrases like, "Burn it," "Bang a wooden basin," or "Kick it." Sometimes he used only one word, such as, "Fire," "Basin," or "Kick."

He didn't care whether they could understand. He just wanted to slack off.

Suppressing the urge to tear the letters apart, Murphy forced himself to reply to several of them, only to end up irritated beyond measure.

He didn't want to work this damn job for another day!

Without thinking, Murphy reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

It was a habit he had developed in his previous life. Whenever he was irritated, he wanted a cigarette.

But after transmigrating, he had lived at Hogwarts as a boarder, and his nicotine addiction had long since faded. He didn't carry cigarettes in his pocket, so naturally, he found none now.

Yet after feeling around, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.

It was actually the business card from that Mohawk-haired man earlier.

David Stick.

Jellida Pharmaceutical Group, Director and Executive President.

When the hell did that bastard slip his card into my pocket?

"What are you doing? Why aren't you writing replies? Who do you think is responsible for our department always being accused of poor efficiency? Those people are suffering from pest problems! They're waiting for our help! And we can't do anything because you haven't even started writing!"

Belinda roared.

Then why the fuck don't you write them yourself?

"Belinda, your sense of responsibility is admirable." Staff Moore promptly offered some flattery.

Ugh. Could you two just die first?

The boring day finally dragged itself to an end.

Before leaving work, Murphy received another piece of bad news.

"Because several magical disasters occurred last month, and donations have decreased, this month's salaries will be temporarily withheld. The Ministry is raising funds as quickly as possible and will strive to make up the payment next month..."

Listening to the declaration from the current Minister, Millicent Bagnold, Murphy rolled his eyes in frustration.

A government whose main sources of funding were actually donations, various examination fees, fines, and the like.

Unstable income, coupled with equally unstable expenditures, meant the Ministry's financial chain occasionally broke down. Delayed wages had become commonplace.

Damn it, who came up with this kind of financial model?

These idiots!

The entire Ministry of Magic couldn't scrape together a single brain!

Reason and logic were nothing but air to these wizards.

"Merlin's rotten crotch! Shit!" someone cursed in the distance.

Clearly, Murphy wasn't the only one dissatisfied.

After cursing a few times, the man spotted Murphy and greeted him. "Murphy, come on, let's get a drink. Damn it, I'm furious!"

The man's name was Oden Fores. A Muggle-born wizard a few years older than Murphy, he worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. The two shared a common hobby: complaining about the Ministry of Magic.

Thinking of all the aggravation from the day, Murphy agreed.

"Let's go. Three Broomsticks."