Michael lived for two things in his public life, and an additional thing in his private life. In public, he lived for his work. He lived, breathed, ate and crapped out his work at the Ministry. Despite his youth, and his relatively short career to date, Michael Potter had an office. It was a glorified closet of an office, but it was an office nonetheless.
His desk was always neat and tidy. But surrounding the desk, on the floor, on any other available space, were the stacks of paperwork. He used the stack closest to his desk as a makeshift table, where he kept a cup on a saucer. On the desk itself was a calendar, an appointment book, an elegant mahogany and gold quill and ink pot set, and a framed photograph of his young son Thomas, who waved chubby fists and grinned through a face full of chocolate cake. There was the desk, his comfortable chair, a chair for guests, a coffee table, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase loaded with books on dark magic and combat spells. He didn't have a window, but he had a charming recreation on a sheet of parchment which hung in a small bit of bare space. The walls were covered with wanted posters, and various other Ministry related paraphernalia.
It was late, and the raid was over. Everyone else had gone home to soak their wounds and sleep it off, but not Michael Potter. He looked a bit worse for wear as he entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There was a gaping tear on his right sleeve, near his shoulder, his hair was sticking up in a thousand directions, and there was a cut down the length of his left cheekbone. Nothing fatal, but enough to show that he hadn't spent the evening tossing back rum at the local pub.
"Bridge, honest to Merlin," he sighed as he approached Wicca's desk, on the way to his office. "Go home. You depress me."