Let's Get Down to Business
Straight from the airport to the office, Harry in his wake for once. Normally he leaves his head of security in England, but more and more business is being done on this side of the pond now (as Serptichore becomes more established in America), and for the next three foreseeable months Robin intends to be Stateside. Enough staff has been left in London to keep things running, but the essential people-- Emma, Harry, Vincent Gereghty-- have all accompanied him to the New York office. (Vincent, as the only actual family man, grumbled a bit; Robin's offered to fly his wife and children over for visits as frequently as he'd like.)
He wants the best of Serptichore to come to bear on the handling of their newest acquisition.
It's not even a full hour from the time they touch down until Robin's yanking the blinds up in the office and treating himself to the view of downtown Manhattan. He tosses his jacket over the back of the nearest chair, slides his aviator sunglasses off, and drops into his large and sinfully comfortable office chair the same instant the desk phone buzzes.
He jabs a finger at one of the myriad buttons. "Yes?"
It's the lobby receptionist, whatever this one's name is. "Mr. Fellowes? There's a Rory Stone to see you."
The lad is punctual. Good habit, that. "Have Mr. Potter bring him up, there's a love," he says breezily, and flips the intercom off. Rory's arrival was one of the reasons for getting through the airport as quickly as possible-- not that he couldn't have postponed the appointment, of course, but, well, it's the principle of the thing. (That is to say, the Puckish principle of squeezing in just in the nick of time, by the skin of one's teeth, in a storm of chaos, et cetera, et cetera.)
By the time Rory ascends the elevator to his floor, is led through the maze of offices, and enters the doorway, Robin's leaned back in his chair with a glass of scotch in one hand and the wand to a bottle of bubbles in the other, sending lazy iridescent spheres up at the office's ceiling. The bottles, both of liquor and bubbles, are kept in his desk's bottom drawer. For, you know, emergencies.
He wants the best of Serptichore to come to bear on the handling of their newest acquisition.
It's not even a full hour from the time they touch down until Robin's yanking the blinds up in the office and treating himself to the view of downtown Manhattan. He tosses his jacket over the back of the nearest chair, slides his aviator sunglasses off, and drops into his large and sinfully comfortable office chair the same instant the desk phone buzzes.
He jabs a finger at one of the myriad buttons. "Yes?"
It's the lobby receptionist, whatever this one's name is. "Mr. Fellowes? There's a Rory Stone to see you."
The lad is punctual. Good habit, that. "Have Mr. Potter bring him up, there's a love," he says breezily, and flips the intercom off. Rory's arrival was one of the reasons for getting through the airport as quickly as possible-- not that he couldn't have postponed the appointment, of course, but, well, it's the principle of the thing. (That is to say, the Puckish principle of squeezing in just in the nick of time, by the skin of one's teeth, in a storm of chaos, et cetera, et cetera.)
By the time Rory ascends the elevator to his floor, is led through the maze of offices, and enters the doorway, Robin's leaned back in his chair with a glass of scotch in one hand and the wand to a bottle of bubbles in the other, sending lazy iridescent spheres up at the office's ceiling. The bottles, both of liquor and bubbles, are kept in his desk's bottom drawer. For, you know, emergencies.