Absit Omen RPG

Agatha Pendragon clearly wasn’t satisfied with having spent the past several months locked up in exile with her elderly husband, she had to barge in and give her unsolicited comments too. Gen may have cut her down with a few comments of her own had she not been just a little smug at the fact that Cuffe’s stuck up skinny wife had been fingering the pages of Witch Weekly while cast out in darkness. It was apt, really, that Cuffe’s wife had taken such a distinct interest in his former employee’s little ant hill.

Cuffe started talking about squatting and wine, and Genevieve grinned. This was the sort of energy that she might have thrived on over the past several months of having Leo back in her life. But no, he’d upped and left with no trace.
“Welcome back.” she said. There was a moment’s pause before Gen even surprised herself.

Leaving her wineglass on the kitchen counter, she stepped up to Cuffe and hugged him.

Gen bit her tongue to stop her making a comment in response to Leo’s suggestion the wrong Pratt had been put in St Mungo’s. Since his incarceration in Azkaban, there had been a darkness in Leo that she wasn’t sure would change. Dante brought out the old Leo, but even then, Gen couldn’t be sure what the old Leo had really been. She still didn’t truly believe that he was innocent.

At the mention of her book, Gen frowned. The book that Leo had angrily filled with red inked scribble. He’d then had hundreds of copies magically dumped on her bed on the 40th birthday. She’d been in bed with Bagnold that morning, the beautifully grumpy wizard who definitely thought she was completely messed up.

“He does.” Gen gave a shrug, frowning. That didn’t help, did it?

Twisting herself on the edge of the table, Gen looked down at her husband. “I’m going to ask one question.” She waited for him to look up at her. “Why the urge to go back to Level 2? I’m not about to pretend I know what it’s like to be an auror but I do know that your colleagues need to have your back. Do you really want to spend your life looking over your shoulder because you can’t trust the colleagues that you should be relying on?”

The news of Cuffe’s return had reached Witch Weekly HQ, and thus, Queen G, at precisely 9:12 in the morning. The emotions came in a mixed wave of confusion. There was, of course, relief. The fact that Cuffe hadn’t been found dead was obviously superb. The fact that, in all of her own personal drama and the recent cohabitation with her long estranged husband, she’d quite pushed his disappearance to the back of his mind, caused guilt. One emotion reigning above the rest, however, was a slowly simmering anger. Barney Cuffe had clearly upped a left, not a word to a soul, not even to his rival come friend come whatever they were. No, he’d not bothered to warn anyone, and had just disappeared into the ether like some selfish and ignorant troll. A gargoyle. Like the gargoyle paperweight she recalled he had sat on his desk for target practice.

After hours of stewing on the news, it was precisely 9:16 in the evening when Gen informed her husband that she needed to see to something, and much to his irritation, she left via the flat door to a question of “why now?”

The home of Agatha Pendragon and Barnabas Cuffe was large and elegant. Gen, having lived in a flat of some sort since she was 16 years old, had never understood the need for one couple to have so much living space. This couple, however, were ridiculous eccentrics so it only figured that their house was equally so.

A knock knock at the door and a good minute or so later, it was slowly opened to reveal the tall slim figure of Agatha Pendragon, Cuffe’s judging, celebrity wife.
“So, you’re not dead then.” Gen remarked, swifting her weight onto left hip. Gen wasn’t dressed for work or company this evening. Instead, she had some simple blue jeans on and a baggy t-shirt covered by a set of black wizarding robes. On her feet, rather than heels, she wore a pair of white trainers.

Agatha made some comment about dropping by unannounced, Gen asked where Barney was, yadda yadda. Long story short, but a short while later, Gen was sat at the breakfast bar in Cuffe’s kitchen with a glass of wine waiting for the man to return from work.

It was precisely 9:58 in the evening when Barney Cuffe appeared into the fireplace and gracefully stepped into the kitchen. Gen turned on the barstool and hopped off, eyes raking over him. He was paler than usual, much like his wife, but apart from that, nothing out of the ordinary.

“You had Thursby in a right tizz, you old crust bucket. I’d never had you down as a coward.”

Leo Gamp, if Gen remembered correctly, had never been a heavy drinker. They had, of course, enjoyed a tipple when they could afford it. Cheap wines, beers or a dripple of firewhiskey when it had been a really difficult day. But the alcohol had always been in the right mood and they’d enjoyed it together. Gen remembered drunken evenings decorating the flat or the times when they’d just curled up on the moth-eaten sofa with a bottle of red wine, two mugs and some toast, chatting all night until they had to almost crawl to bed.

Times changed, and Azkaban changed people. Now the cheap wine was an expensive gin and it was slipping down her husband’s throat a little too easily. Ironically, the gin was still in a mug. The man drinking it, however, still a stranger after months of freedom.

“Oh.” There wasn’t any funny comment or deflection that could be made in response to that. There wasn’t anything that could be said to make that sting any less for him.
With a frown, Gen leaned over to take the cup from Leo. She poured a small measure for herself and lifted it to her lips. She wasn’t used to drinking it neat, and she pulled a face as she felt it go down.

“Mierda.” Gen muttered, putting the cup back down for Leo. “Easy to sit in your ivory tower and judge when you’ve not lost everything. I’m sorry, Leo.”

Oh Merlin, it had been one of those mornings.

“Not having my office used as a thoroughfare, yes.” But this wasn’t about Leo’s choice of entrance.

Gen, stood a suitable distance away from her stormy husband, wracked her brain for what might have caused this mood to descend on him so dramatically. Her dark eyes raked over him. He was dressed smart, new dress robes and neat hair. The stubble he’d sported recently was gone. No court dates, all that was done. He was still waiting on hearing anything of a settlement for the wrongful time served. That meant one thing.

“Oh shit.” Gen whispered, her expression suddenly changing. Leo had been at the ministry that morning on Level 2. He’d been in to see about getting his old job back 12 years after his arrest. He so badly wanted to become an auror again, much to Gen’s confusion.
“You saw Auror Pratt today.” Better than having seen Carstairs, at least. Leo, fortunately, still didn’t know just how his wife had spent some of his incarceration, and she hoped he never found out.

With a sigh, Gen moved closer, perching herself on the edge of the kitchen table beside Leo.
“And now you’re going to get blind drunk on expensive gin before it’s even noon. Good plan. I can’t see a fault in that at all.”

“When you find a solution that doesn’t involve sticking pins in my eyes, holler.” Queen G told her artistic editor before she turned from the desk to catch the back of her estranged now not so estranged husband stomping up the stairs to her flat. Dark eyes didn’t fail to spot that she wasn’t the only one who’d made note of his entrance. Several of her reporters and gossip artists looked on as the flat door was opened and then slammed shut. Coffee in hand, Gen took a very slow swig, stealing herself for what she knew she had to do.

Fridays were always an intense day at Witch weekly. Because, you know, they were a weekly. On Friday morning, her team scurried around like busy little bees around their Queen. On Saturday morning, thousands of copies of their magazine were flown through windows and doors and landed in small shops around the country. Dealing with an angry estranged now not so estranged husband didn’t really fit into Gen’s schedule.

“Fix it.” The editor gestured to the page on her colleague’s desk before she started her steady walk through the office towards her flat, keenly aware of the eyes now on her. Damn Leo and damn his ability to have snuck back into her life. Not even your dirtiest darkest secret could stay secret when you lived above your workplace.

When inside the flat, Gen found her husband in the kitchen, already opening a cupboard which held the good stuff.
“I’m connected to the floo, network, Leo. You know, to use during business hours.” As she’d told him before. A closer inspection made the witch frown. “Who pissed on your bonfire?”

Genevieve García-Gamp
Flat above Witch Weekly Headquarters
Diagon alley
London

To Kurby Bagnold
Diagon Alley

We both know I’m not a cheap date, Kurby, dear. But you have to agree, worth every sickle.

TTFN
GG

Genevieve García-Gamp
Flat above Witch Weekly Headquarters
Diagon alley
London

To Kurby Bagnold
Diagon Alley

In the small parcel is a copy of witch weekly from 31st March. A post-in note is sticking out, earmarking the advert for the next full moon at Calaveras and  a woolly hat.

To my favourite wizard,

Saw the hat and thought of you. I couldn't bear the thought of your ears getting cold when you're out protecting us.

Don't think I agree with the premise of the parties, but I always agree with a good discount. 15% off for the sexiest hunter in London.

Kisses,
Gen

Well that got heavy fast. Gen wanted to sit and throw complaints into the burning embers of the fireplace while drinking expensive wine, not talk dead ministry personnel and people living in terror. Unfortunately, there was Sandy bringing up Alec Carter’s attack and their own terrified colleague. Gen, not in the mood to talk about Tulips refusal to step foot out of her front door once a month, took a large gulp of wine.

“Yes. Of course, he is serious.” No one put themselves out there as so openly against werewolves if they weren’t serious. Some people wouldn’t believe it to be a statement of intent, but that was as Gen saw it. A statement of distaste for their furry full moon companions. Unfortunately, one couldn’t get in trouble for simply sharing a dislike, could they? Besides, in truth, Gen didn’t really care enough to take a stand. She wasn’t a werewolf and wasn’t personally close to any. Perhaps Kurby might pop in and get his discount, if he ever read the advert. She’d need to send him a copy.

“How many people will really be outraged by this, though? After what’s happened? This wizard turns up and immediately finds a growing target audience. Even you can agree that it’s not an awful business plan. I’d show up just to have a few ex-werewolf hunters flex their muscles for my protection. Oh, I’m so scared Mr Burly Hunter, please escort me home.”

“Well, technically they’re right, aren’t they?” Gen responded, nursing an almost full glass of red as she watched the flames dance in the fireplace before them. She was curled up in an armchair beside the fireplace, her heels on the floor and bare feet tucked up under her. They were in Sandy’s office, partaking in the usual first Wednesday of the month task. At least he always provided decent wines. “No one wants a werewolf knocking down their door on a full moon, do they?”

Gen only had a vague recollection of scanning the advert in the weekly edition before she’d approved it for print. In truth, her publicity editor usually rejected the controversial adverts or pieces before they even landed on Gen’s desk. She should have paid more attention, but she’d been spending so much time trying to piece together her own private life now that Leo was back, that her work ethic had dropped and her grasp over every aspect of the weekly was waning. She clearly needed to up her game.

She frowned, putting down the wine on the coffee table and taking up another letter to open. There was a larger than average pile this month. “It’s just…tasteless, isn’t it? To be so brazen. But we’re not in the business of censorship, Sandy. Maybe Señor Falcón has captured a gap in the market?” A gap for prejudiced morons looking for a drink and a good time.

A lot of thoughts were currently occupying a great deal space rent free in Gen’s head. She wanted to know what Leo was hoping to gain from a lunch out with her other than perhaps the eyes of onlookers and the instigation of gossip. She was internally berating herself for turning out looking so Queen G that drawing most of the gazes in the small café was a given. Of course, the biggest question in her mind was still about Leo’s possible guilt and what he planned to do to her when he obtained the opportunity. And now? Now her mind was filling up with several lunch possibilities that would convey her openness to forgive and support yet fear, pride and protectiveness over her son all in one dish. A big ask, no?

Attempting to not appear at all affected, Gen took an intake of breath through her teeth, eyebrows raising.
“Talk about pressure, Gamp” she said. Turning in her seat to glance over at the blackboard of specials, Gen began to read out the options, “Roast pumpkin and feta tarts, not terrible, full of butter. Something you might benefit from. Moroccan baked eggs and sausages…not sure what makes them Moroccan. Oh, there’s the kale muffin. That’s a no. Nope. Nope. Too greasy. Too nouvelle vogue. Ah, there it is.” She turned back to Leo, looking moderately satisfied with herself. “Beans on toast. Well, almost. We can ask them to remove the lightly poached egg and avocado to replace with baked beans. If you are really nice to the waitress, she might see if they’ve got some brown sauce and those crappy little sausages they used to put in with the beans.” Back in the days when they’d had no money, Genny and Leo had had their fill of the cheap little muggle tins of beans and sausages.

“Kale.” Gen confirmed, mildly amused as her estranged husband made his own assumptions. Having been a meat and potatoes fan, she wasn’t certain the wizard had even heard of kale before his incarceration. His tastes would probably be even blander after 13 years inside dining on what she could only presume was gruel and slop. He’d lost a considerable amount of weight throughout his stay at Chez Azkaban, and Gen noted that he was finally starting to look more himself, if not for the aging.

It was impossible not to notice the sharp green eyes taking her in at his leisure, and Gen pressed her lips together in mild displeasure before offering a strained smile and sitting down.
“I’ve an event later.” she explained, choosing to ignore the compliment. Gen wanted to be open to whatever this was, but their previous conversations and his birthday present dumped on her bed were etched too clearly in her memory. “We should order. I’ve only got an hour. I need to approve tomorrow’s edition or my print master will get his knickers in an awful twist. Deadlines!” Brown eyes danced over his face. “You know how it is.” An awkward frown then twisted the witch’s features. “Well, did, I guess. Sorry.”

They’d been getting along. Not the ‘oh Merlin’s big hairy beard, I want to rip off your underwear and make hippogriff noises’ kind of getting along; more the ‘we’re still married but I kind of hate you yet feel obliged to be polite’ kind of getting along. It was an awkward situation, and while Gen tended to enjoy a good bit of awkwardness, she found this situation less than appealing.

Today, she had agreed to eating lunch with her ex-not-ex-husband, father of her child and former-not-former-death eater. It was entirely complicated, their relationship. She’d agreed to Friday because her time would be limited. The final edit for this week’s copy would be on her desk in an hour for her final approval. It was the Saint Patricks’ Day edition. Lots of green and Irishness. That meant she had an excuse to leave and cut their lunch short. Gen also supposed it might irk him should she leave for the job she was well aware he disapproved of. Let him disapprove. There was something quirkily thrilling about his irritation. It meant there was still something there, didn’t it?

Gen, stepping into the café, was dressed for a day in the office followed by a Saint Paddy’s night out. Her sparkly heels were a dark green and covered in the usual glitter. She wore skinny black trousers, an emerald blouse, and a black leather jacket. Her hair was fairly straight, but with a few streaks of emerald green. Her ring finger was still glaringly bare. Across the room, she saw Leo. Was it her imagination, or did he look better with each rendezvous? Freedom suited him and it only served to make things even more complicated.

“Have you seen the specials? My assistant mentioned a mean kale and pumpkin savoury muffin.” The witch asked with a smirk as she approached the table. Leo would probably never be the sort to even entertain a kale and pumpkin muffin.

Well, this was about as delightful as having your eyes poked out by the claws of an eagle! Sandy was clearly trying to school any shock he felt at being so close to the notorious Leo Gamp, while Leo was evidently sizing up the Healer and magazine owner to see if he provided any sort of threat. Gen simply clutched her wine, wishing that perhaps this event had been much less publicised. Perhaps then, Leo wouldn’t have shown up.

They shook hands but didn’t draw wands for a Mexican stand-off. That was a small relief. The words from his angry letter, the scribbles all over her book and Daily Prophet article and their meeting at Azkaban rang through her mind. Leo wasn’t happy that Gen worked at the Witch Weekly. Was he going to do something to jeopardise her job, right here?

“You really should get searching, Sandy.” Gen said, attempting to keep her tone light. There was still, unfortunately, an edge to it. “The future Mrs Misslethorpe might just be waggling it’s polkadot twin.” Please walk away, Sandy, she willed. Walk away now.

After a moment, Gen turned to Leo beside her at the bar. “You should have told me you were interested in this event; I could have paired you with some delicious witch.”

It was quite the challenge not to be deeply frustrated by the badly timed arrival of Bruce the fat grey cat. Gen had cut to it with her question to Leo. What did he want? What was he most interested in gaining by being here in her living room? Back in Azkaban, he’d been angry and volatile, tense and unpleasant. In front of Dante, he’d been the perfect gentleman, eager to show his best side to the son he’d never known about. Even alone with her here, he wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t warm and friendly either. As far as Leo Gamp was concerned, his wife had abandoned him and lied about her marriage to him during his entire incarceration. But he’d never agreed to divorce. So why was he here?

Gen passed a few moments by taking a sip from her wine glass. Perhaps after a few of those, she wouldn’t care so much about the answer to the big question playing on her over active mind.

“I’m not a total inept.” Gen responded to his comment about whom she’d looked after. Unable to figure out of this was an accusation or not, Gen tried to soften her expression. “Dante’s a good kid. He doesn’t take much looking after.” It was definitely best that Leo didn’t know how their young son had looked after his mother and her hangovers several times in the past. It was probably best that Leo didn’t know just how much his wife had partied and drank throughout the years.

“And this fat sod? As long as he can’t see the bottom of his bowl, he’s content.”