Noon, Flourish and Blotts. Ground floor.




Rascal Rosier sat behind a long table in the bookshop, leaning back in his seat as long and lanky legs stretched out from underneath. He grinned past the queue of wizards and witches ahead of him, towards the back of the wee boy yelling on the alley to announce the signing.

"Mister Rosier," the bookshop clerk was stood next to him while nervously wringing his elderly wrists. "But we aren't offering a sickle discount."

Glancing away from the crowd forming out front, Rascal winked at the man. "Well you are now."

Sickle here, sickle there. What did it matter to the choir-singing clams? Or the quarrelling octopi, come to that. He smiled quixotically to himself and then leaned forward, arms sprawled across the table. "Bored. Bored, bored, booooring. Should we begin?" his lips puckered a childish, impatient noise. "We should begin. Queue in, good sir! Onwarrrds~"

As there was no way to deal with this whim, even if it was an hour earlier than expected for the event to begin, the bookshop clerk went along anxiously to unlock the doors. Rascal snatched up his quill the moment they creaked open- and he smiled like a child at the first few readers who came in, the younger ones, as delighted to see them as they were to meet him.

At the lead of a sea of excited fans who were ready to march into the ground floor of Flourish and Blotts, a robusts ginger witch calmly let her steely gaze roam over the final pages of a clever book titled A Borrowed Banister. As fans impatiently waited to enter the shop Ananke Cosmos nodded approvingly at the strange and clever book, only to stop every moment or so to let her amber eyebrows curiously jump up onto her forehead.

Finally the doors opened and the crowd was allowed to rush into the door. Despite originally being at the front of the line Ananke let a few excited children run past as her as she slowly strode across the room while she lazily finished the final pages of "Rascal" Rosier's book.

Once she arrived in line behind all the young reader's the ginger witch only was able to turn a single page until she arrived at the table with the book stll open in front of her--and she still had ten more pages to finish. Ananke Cosmos looked around her book to see the young man waiting at the table and then casually glanced over her shoulder before she  quickly stepped to the side of the table and elegantly lowered her heavy frame into a chair next to the man. Then she crossed  one leg over the other one and turned another page--as if she were just relaxing in the staff room at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She waited another moment before she turned another page and held up a finger to the young man next to her, "I'm almost finished," she confirmed in an informative tone as she bobbed her foot in the air. Finally, she turned the page again, at after Rascal finished whatever it was that he might have occupied himself with the witch's voice drawled through the air, "How clever are you about signing things?"

"C-can you make it out to Kaityln?"

"Daniel!! Cheers!"

"I l-loved your short s-stories. Um, ah, ummm, it's Mary, p-please."

The little ones were at extremes: friendly as drunk mice or nervous as sober ones. Rascal greeted each one with an enthusiastic grin and a lack of adult condescension that only young things could really understand. He was just waving off a tiny Sarah when the tall redhead appeared at the desk.

... but not really, because she wasn't quite done with the book. The witch took the clerk's vacated chair next to him and Rascal's lips pressed into a tickled simper. When a story had you in its grips there was nothing to do, was there? The next lady in the line came up and the signing continued as though nothing had happened (well nothing had quite literally happened), except for once when he was reassured that the woman was indeed almost done.

"Thanks, now don't you forget to watch out for smirking umbrellas!" Rascal handed back a signed book to the.... twenty eight and a half person in line. He was about to receive the twenty ninth when his newfound companion finally spoke again. "How clever are you about signing things?"

Astute question! He'd only met about four platypuses with such astuteness before and none of them had even read his books. Rascal turned his head, sighing in parody.
 
"Not at all clever" he quipped. "All my signatures flop their NEWTS, I'm afraid." His eyebrows went up, hopeless, and then fell just as suddenly into a serious line. "Did you like my book? The banister was my favourite character but nobody ever agrees~"

"That is fine," Ananke answered as her steely gaze perused the final pages of the story, "Only passing grades in OWLs are required." The witch folded the book together and slid it onto the side of the desk as the line continued to move.

"I did quite enjoy the book, though I'm not one to pick up favorites..." her eyes gently settled on the long line of people, "It would have to be the owner of the book." An amber eyebrow quirked into an arch as she moved her gaze back to the kooky writing in question.

"Her name is Francesca, a student at Hogwarts--but she's always had a nasty habit of being inattentive during class," her voice had a mischievous twist to it and a sharp tinge to her lips. She had been of a much similar sort when she was younger, "It's an irritating point for professors."

"Though she is quite amusing, such as a terrorizing niece might be," it was misleading, of course--but Ananke Cosmos was wandering how much she could get away with this man--or if he was just as entirely silly as a Martian with a love for bow ties.

"Do you ever think about your readers as characters?"

The queue wasn't held up in the least bit by the woman. One by one, Rascal received them- turning his head on occasion to remark on something she'd said or to laugh at a comment. Time, after all, was time. Why do one thing at once when you can do several?

He licked the point of his quill and set it down to page after page, ears pricking up like a puppy's at intervals. Inattentive students! Like kittens. Too stupid to pay attention or much too smart for it.

"I know of nastier habits," Rascal smiled with a quick wink at the witch before handing back a harback to the fellow who'd just proffered it. "Careful, the eightieth page bites now."

Next person in line. A battered copy of Poisonwood & Pulp, he handled it delicately and nodded at the man. It was a favourite with the serious ones. His signature left the pen with typical flourish.

"I see my readers as characters and my characters as readers and sometimes..." the book was returned and Rascal glanced at the woman next to him before the queue could move on. "Sometimes I think about them all as terribly literate penguins."

Flourish and Blotts at noon, the owl had said.  It just mentioned the author and encouraged him to go see him, that Elliot's particular skills might prove to be of value to the company.  This meant, of course, that he was probably dealing with a rather strange, difficult, or eccentric author.  While his partners generally left him to pursue his own work, they occasionally threw a client his way with light insistence that he was their last chance.  He'd earned himself quite the reputation for soothing impossible personalities.  He kept trying to tell them that it was just because the relationship between him and Dolly was different but here he was.

Elliot had heard about Rascal Rosier but one of the nicest things he'd ever heard was 'stark raving mad'.  He'd try not to let that negative opinion get in the way like it had with dolly.  Prejudice, he'd found over the years, could be read in the tone of a man's voice.  Even someone who tried to hide it had a way of letting it slip eventually.  So Elliot tried to keep an open mind about the behaviors of potential new authors.  Things went a lot smoother generally.

There was a long line for signature from the author.  Normally he would wait off to the side until the event was finished but this was intended to be an informal introduction.  The first thing he heard when he stepped up was something about penguins.  So he played along in relatively good humor.  "I think you'll find that more often than not, people are little more than literate penguins."  He gestured playfully at his suit, a carefully tailored and traditional black suit with a crisp white shirt with the first few buttons undone.  He didn't necessarily mean himself but a closer relationship ought to reveal that there was more to him than a suit and the ability to read words.  Elliot stretched his hand across the table with an open palm  "I am Elliot Griffin with Trollhouse Publishing.  It's nice to meet you, Mister Rosier."

Watching the author throw random comments at his readers was quite amusing, though Ananke was rather saddened by the sudden arrival of a handsome publisher with a need to be logical, "I think I'd rather like being a penguin--preferably with thumbs," the witch was mostly airing her thoughts to herself now, hoping she could sit around and hear more nonsense from Rascal Rosier, "But I think a literate dolphin is much more flattering."

Then the ginger witch opened Francesca's book to page eighty, with a casual yet longing expression. She wished this book would bite.

Now here was a stubble he recognized.

Rascal's head tilted back speculatively as his beady eyes snapped from the prickly face down to the moving lips and then to the extended hand. More than literate penguins indeed.

"Dolphins are literate," the author murmured in a deadpan voice without looking at Ananke- his gaze remained quite blatantly on the wizard standing infront of the desk. He twirled a quill in a tricksy gesture of the fingers, tapped the tip once... and then finally extended his other hand.

But not so much to shake Griffin's hand as to hold it. He turned it up and leaned forward to examine the palm. Lines, lines in whichever directions. Maps like spaghetti straps pressed into a woman's bare shoulder.

"Ah, so you are the Griffin. Certainly not a penguin." Rascal paused, considered the sudden impulse to lick the man's hand and decided against it swiftly before releasing his grip. He glanced up with a quick, impish tweak of the lips. "More of a travelling cactus."

In a pot, not a desert. Potted cacti. Hundreds of potted cacti, what a brilliant bestowal. Rascal's head sped away in a hundred directions at once though he kept the bulk of his attention in the present.

"I'm afraid you have the wrong mammal, good cactus..." he rested back into the chair. "Mister Rosier, that's my uncle. Tall, darling, drunk." It was Rascal or nothing at all. They had to know, now, how much of a stickler was the good cactus Griffin?

Elliot was uncomfortably certain for a moment that something unpleasant was going to happen to the hand he'd proffered. When he got it back, he surreptitiously glanced at his palm and wondered if there was something there that defined him as cactus rather than a penguin.  Elliot rubbed his palm against his thigh and laughed lightly, if somewhat uncomfortably.

But then Elliot Griffin regrouped and smiled congenially.  "I'm sorry, you must prefer going by Rascal.  I apologize.  Some people I meet are a bit traditional when it comes to formality and etiquette.  I find it's usually best to err on the side of formality."   Suddenly, Elliot felt kind of like a cactus.  Rigid and a bit... prickly.  He frowned to himself.  No, he was just a business professional.  It was his job to behave a certain way.

Elliot reached into his pocket and produced a simple business card.  He handed it across the table to Rascal.  "Like I said, I'm with Trollhouse Publishing and I would like to meet with you sometime about your next book.  You're busy now, of course, but I can owl you and set something up."

Formal, perhaps formidable, a touch forward, most certainly not facetious.

The impressions went through Rascal's mind in a blink as he smiled back at the wizard- quick, evidently pained. A betting pool had most likely been plotted at the diabolical headquarters of Trollhouse Publishing. How long for the cactus: days, weeks, months? Regardless, the author accepted to card without glancing at the print. Everything he needed to know stood before him. There would be no convincing anyone that he didn't need an editor.

"I don't use owls," Rascal replied flippantly. "Pigeons or magpies. Or you could send over a cat but I can't guarantee that nuncle's house elf would like that. One fickle creature is enough, you know..." Whether he meant himself or the DMLE Head was unclear.

Elliot Griffin would no doubt 'set something up' and they would simply have to work together.

"But don't leave without a gift~" a book was procured from the pile towering next to Ananke (he flashed her a cheeky wink while reaching across) and the cover was signed quickly. He looked up at the prickly fellow, handing over the book. "Can't have too many."

The cogs in Cynric's head were already in motion- abseiling off the Eiffel Tower, crossing the Channel in a banana-shaped canoe, apprenticing as Hatmakers for a week, Fwooper-breeding, exotic dancing.

Oh, yes. They were going to have a fabulous time together.

Ananke felt like she was cast aside for a moment at the assertion that Dolphin’s were literate—she supposed that depended on if you were referring to the English language or not.

The exchange that followed between the two seemed like a clever game, one that Rascal knew how to play rather well and one that Mr. Griffin wasn’t entirely familiar with. Surely not a game then, but a bit of mischief—If such a trap could give off a stench!

“Book signing, gift-giving, and dates,” Ananke nodded her head at Rascal, “You’re rather busy, aren’t you?” Diabolical was surely a better choice of words.

Elliot took the signed copy of Rascal's book with smile.  "I'm afraid I don't know any cats who'd be willing to carry a message.  Fickle is probably not the word I'd use to describe them either."  He nodded conciliatory at Rascal and the woman sitting somewhat petulantly beside him.  "I'll leave you to your work here.  We'll work something out." 

With a final smile and wave, Elliot turned and left the small bookshop, completely unaware of the diabolical plans rolling around the author's head regarding the two of them.  Blissfully unaware because if he knew, he'd probably run screaming from this particular assignment.

Rascal's beady eyes followed the figure of his prickly new editor as the wizard left the queue with expected courtesy. Tough nut, that fellow. He'd be good fun to crack. The line of readers continued with little incident then- none impatient. If anything they seemed to be quite social amongst themselves.

Which reflect, one could suppose, on his readership base. Speaking of which. “Book signing, gift-giving, and dates,” the witch next to him commented in a voice that made him smile impudently. “You’re rather busy, aren’t you?

It seemed as though a much less polite word than 'busy' could have been used and Rascal turned away from the latest person in-queue to offer the redhead a comically quizzical glance.

"I could stand to be a little busier," he replied. "Rather dull, discoursing with penguins and polar bears. Something to be said about human interaction. Do you have a name, or will I be making out your copy to an anonymous admirer?"