1105 hours, Office of Balfour Spectre


"Mrs Lanningham." Balfour Spectre leaned against the open door frame of his office, arms folded as he stared at the tiny old witch whose desk ran vanguard to many a visitor. The secretary looked up at him with a tart, piercing expression. He raised an  eyebrow. "Mrs Lanningham, am I not dressed for the field?"

Unchanged, she replied. "Yes sir, you are."

"Am I not supposed to be in the field?"

A glimpse down at the schedule before she replied. "Yes sir, you are."

"Then why-" Balfour continued in grim but good humour: "-am I not in the field?"

Mrs Lanningham sighed, removing her moon-rim spectacles. "Firstly, you haven't eaten. Secondly, there's a report you still need to sign. It's on your desk."

"Lastly?" he smiled with fondness.

Of course she smiled back. "Lastly, you haven't eaten."

They might as well have hired his mother to man the desk. The wizard had been Head of Division for more than a month now and already he knew that it was pointless to provoke the silver-haired dragon. Lanningham was a dangerous business (as all women were).

"Fine." Balfour began pulling off his jacket. "I read the report and I'm not putting my name on that. Send Amherst in and tell her to bring fresh parchment, won't you please?" He nearly slammed the door behind him- but thought better of it.

Margo had her feet up on her desk.  This was typical, of course, as she did not particularly like working at the desk, and leaning back in her chair was about as much comfort as she could muster when she was trying to read anything, particularly the boring nonsense that got sent her way. 

It was while she was reading this report – diligently reading – she would add, that somewhere between the first and third paragraph (most likely the second) that she started to doze off.  It was slow at first, a nod of the head, a yawn – nothing too noticeable… but then, like falling asleep could be, it was sudden.  Her chin dipped to her upper-chest and time slipped away, and the report she was reading fell to the floor, and Margo didn’t even notice.

She didn’t even stir from her position, precariously balanced with her leather boots propped up, arms fallen to her side. 

”Amherst…” she heard distantly, though felt as though it was in a dream… maybe?  She lolled her head to the side, avoiding the sound, and groaned a little.  “Amherst…” she heard again, a little closer now – like the vision in her dream was getting clearer, and then finally Margo tipped forward in her chair and the wheels pushed back. 

Her eyes opened wide and Margo attempted to catch herself against the desk, landing with a hard ‘oomph’ with her palms against the desk and her knees on the ground.  Looking up, bleary eyed and rumpled, Margo took in the image of Mrs. Lanningham and sighed.  “What’d I do now?” even a very sleepy Margo could figure this out. 

“Mr. Spectre would like you – and a fresh piece of parchment – in his office,” she said, apparently nonplused by Margo’s appearance or sleeping.  Margo nodded, pulling herself off the ground on shaky limbs and awkwardness, and Mrs. Lanningham was off.

Of course she’d need to go see him – and with fresh parchment?  That was almost laughable.  Looking at her desk, Margo grabbed a slightly wrinkled – with only one coffee stain – piece of parchment (more scrunched in her hand as she went to grab it), and then followed after the oddly speedy Mrs. Lanningham. 

Approaching the office – a place she was very familiar with – Margo leaned on the doorframe and smiled a little bit.  “You.. wanted to see me," a pause, "sir?”

The office was too big.

A bare ten feet sprawled the space between Balfour and the witch. He didn't like offices, he didn't even like being indoors and if it was even slightly practical to shelve books between mossy hills then there would be absolutely no point in coming under a roof. So here he was behind a desk, surrounded by nothing but pyramids of volumes and folders.

"Amherst." He looked up from a stained parchment, brow wrinkled with something like concern. "Are you alright? Do you need to be at St. Mungo's?" Balfour pushed his chair back and stood with the document tightly clasped. He circled around, gesturing for her to shut the door.

There was no cause for Mrs Lanningham to eavesdrop on his meetings.

"Is this how you write all your reports or do we need to owl a Healer?" he cavalierly tossed the file on to one of the seats - really just a tower of books - in the corner. "I'm not asking for Shakespeare, Margo. We aren't diplomats but-" the wizard smiled hopelessly. "- coherency would be rather nice."

Blinking, Margo wondered if maybe she did look that worse for wear.  Yesterday had been Valentne’s Day, and she hadn’t been with anyone (that she knew, anyway).  Sure, she went to the bar, and yea, she might have stayed out a little too late… but she didn’t think she looked that bad.  But, she figured she must have, and shook her head.  “I’m fine,” she answered, still confused, and entered more fully when he motioned, shutting the door behind her.

She must have been really in for it – it wasn’t as though she was usually in a positon that she was in an office, let alone one with a closed door.   

Clearing her throat, she stood, awkward in the middle of the floor like a teenager during exams.  It seemed, just like exams, she was going to be reamed out for her work. 

It wasn’t a new trend by any means, Margo was used to it, but she wasn’t used to getting called out for it.  Watching the folder fly onto a pile, and then looking back to her boss, she attempted to shove her hands in her pockets… only to realize she had no pockets… and then just ended up awkwardly rubbing her hands on her thighs, which was also sufficiently awkward.  She tried to recover by making a little slap against her hips before she clasped her hands in front of her.  “Well, you see… that report there…” she glanced at it, trying to make an excuse…

“Well… um… what exactly wasn’t… coherent about it?” she wasn’t even entirely sure she knew what the word meant. 

Level four was not known for its articulate penmanship. Balfour had reminded himself of this several times in the morning and he did so again, staring incredulously at Margo's face.

"You... you..." he turned around, running both hands through his hair. Dragons! Dragons any day! "It's a placement application, not the Magna Carta. Listen-" the wizard swivelled back to address her: "- you need to use paragraphs and you need to start taking transcripts instead of writing from memory."

None of the long sections were filled in properly and all of the short sections had been overwritten with a scribble that was neither man nor beast in style. Not to mention the coffee stains.

Balfour motioned at the file, refusing on principle to touch it again. "Write another so that I can burn this one already, won't you?" he grimaced. "I can hold off the deadline until five. That's hours and you'll have Mrs Lanningham at your disposal."

Margo blinked at him, wide eyed and confused.  She didn’t exactly understand what was wrong.  No one really ever complained about what she had turned in before – she wasn’t sure anyone actually read them.  But, Spectre apparently wasn’t anything like any of her other superiors – in that he was actually concerned about it. 

“I did take the transcript,” she protested, “It’s just not attached.  Besides,” she shrugged, “it’s not like I recommended him for the placement anyway,” she dropped into the chair across from Spectre’s desk. 

She wasn’t going to rewrite it if she didn’t have to.  That was silly, and a waste of her valuable napping-at-work time, which she could feel quickly creeping back up on her.  No, this was not okay. 

So, she rested her elbows on her knees and sighed, looking up at him as her hair fell in her eyes.  “He was a sissy – I wrote that on page… two? Three? I know I wrote it – and he had bad breath.  That’s really all you need to know to deny him.  There’s more, of course, if you want it.” 

She smiled, hoping that he would be sick of her and send her out – but she did not want to deal with this. 

He should have known this wasn't going to be straightforward. It never is.

Balfour leaned against the front of his desk, arms folded as he considered the conundrum. How was he going to phrase this? He licked his lips uncertainly as the answer came to him: with small, small words.

"You can't write sissy in a report. Cowardly maybe," his face wrinkled with doubt. "Or weakling. Keep your casual language low. I mean-"

This was ridiculous, he didn't have time to tutor her on reports! Balfour pinched the bridge of his nose. Nobody had said that this was going to be a part of the job. Or perhaps they did and he wasn't listening.

"My point is: these documents are transparent and applicants are free to request them for feedback," he explained. "If I sign it, your name would go on as well. Do you really want to be on the other end of this fellow's Howler?"

Amherst was a no-nonsense, resilient lass. He didn't like having it at her over semantics and they both obviously had better things to do then re-write reports. Was it too early for a drink? A glimpse at his clock - a grandfather affair ticking ominously by the door - said that yes, it was. Balfour sighed.

“Why can’t I write sissy?” Margo asked before he even had a chance to throw out the thing about casual language.  She was affronted:  her analysis was good; even if it was written like she had just talked at the quill (she had). 

Sighing, she ran her hand through her hair and frowned.   “Look, I just write it like I see it,” Margo shrugged.  “I don’t care if,” she stood up again to look at the name on the application, squinting to even decipher her own handwriting – if pressed, she would note that she was reading upside down. 

“I don’t care if Rodney Hallingfax sends me a howler.  In fact,” she looked up at her boss with a smirk, “I don’t think he’s got the bits to do it, if you know what I mean.”  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the deceptively comfortable chair. 

She always assumed the chairs across from any big desks were meant to be uncomfortable and threatening, but there was a bit of a bounce in this one, and she truly appreciated it.  If she had to be here and defend her own work, at least the chair she was doing it from wasn’t a pain on her arse.  At least that was better than her desk. 

“I just don’t see why I should waste both of our time when, to be fair, he was a sissy and not fit for the placement - I'd put galleons on it."

He was sorely tempted to ask the witch why it was she manned a desk when she should have been (wo)manning a Dragon, with that attitude. Ah, but Balfour was a tactful fellow.

"You'd put galleons on it," he repeated with a searching gaze. "Alright."

If Amherst would put galleons on it~

"MRS LANNINGHAM!" The yell was abrupt and unhesitant- not for a moment did his eyes leave the offender. Creaking, the door swung open and his very stern-looking secretary stood at the threshold, raising her silver eyebrows at them.

It would have taken a cataclysm to shock the old woman. "You needn't yell Mr Spectre, I can very well hear you from outside," she reprimanded tartly. Balfour cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.

"Yes, sorry." He murmured politely. " I need you to take note. Miss - it is Miss isn't it? - Amherst would like to go on record to hold a wager. I think fifteen galleons is a fair bet, don't you Margo?"

The wizard differed to her with an inquiring smile. "I'd place my odds on a Howler by the end of the month."

“Damn straight, I would,” Margo replied crisply, not losing a beat.  She didn’t want to seem wishy-washy on anything, and she believed, quite strongly, that she was right and wouldn’t care a wit if someone sent a howler. 

She used to get them in school quite a bit, and truth be told, Margo laughed as the little red mouths bobbed up and down, angrily shouting.  It had ceaselessly amused her, and she howled even louder than the dumb things themselves when others got them. 

Blinking, Margo almost fell out of her chair when he yelled for the dotty secretary, and she gripped the arms – out of habit, tilting her head back – over the back of the chair and viewed the sarcastic woman upside down.  She saw her give her a look – though only for a flicker of a moment – and Margo slowly pulled herself back up and sat in the seat like an adult – like that look the woman gave her told her to. 

It didn’t matter that Lanningham couldn’t have been too much older than her – she had a mom stare about her that could make anyone shrink in their seat – even the foul-mouthed Amherst.  “Yeh, it’s Miss,” she affirmed, “and fifteen?  Do I have to write sissy across your desk too?” she smirked, cut down by a death glare from Mrs. Lanningham. 

She cleared her throat and leaned forward, “I mean… let’s raise it to twenty – just to make it even,” she glanced out of the corner of her eye, the sniff of distaste from the woman clearly showed her displeasure with the gambling. 

“I’d say… based on what I wrote,” she smirked, “It’ll be a week.”  She looked up at the woman, "Got that?"

With the likes of his secretary glaring down the staff, it was a wonder that Balfour ever needed to exercise sternness. He enjoyed that.

"If we're playing it close, I'm betting three days. Twenty galleons and a round of drinks for the Division-" the wizard quickly amended with a reassuring smile at the older woman; she had procured a quill and was scribbling away with a few pointed glares at Amherst. "-perhaps more than one round for you Mrs Lanningham."

Twitching her nose, she disappeared from the open doorway. Balfour glanced back to Margo and then pushed himself away from the desk.

"Be civil to Harriet[1]," he raised a chastising eyebrow, moving leisurely to a willowy coat-stand surrounded by mounds of books. "She pens our pay slips and you'll need yours when Hallingfax comes calling in a red envelope."

He was counting on the fellow being a rash bastard, as worse decisions were made in haste than over lengths of time.

"Now... lunch?" Balfour pulled on his jacket and offered a cavalier hand to Margo. "It's ill-advised to meet dragons on an empty stomach."

1.	Mrs Lanningham's first name.

“You’re on!” Margo replied, quickly.  She didn’t want any mistake made of this: she was all in.  It didn’t really matter what the stakes were, she didn’t have shame – and certainly no limit to her pocketbook.  Dipping into her vault wasn’t going to make any difference at all. 

But now she was a point that she could relax fully in the chair.  They had not come to blows over the ridiculous contents of the report she had filed, and they had a bet under their belts: everyone knew any English gentleman couldn’t refuse a bet.  By all accounts, they were pretty much best mates. 

Well, maybe not best mates: but it was much better than when she got into the room.

Rolling her eyes at him (it did not take long for Margo to forget – or disregard – someone’s authority).  “I was just making sure she got what I said.  After all, how can I know if you’re not topping her off so the bet lands in your favor?” she returned her own raised eyebrow, feeling quite proud of herself that she’d just accused the boss of something like that: no shame. 

Of course, that extended to the idea of free lunch, and Margo put her hand in Spectre’s, allowing him to help her up (mostly using him to pull herself up), and finally was on both of her feet and not quite so wobbly.  “Going to the field today?” she asked, a tinge of jealousy rearing its ugly head as she adjusted the bottom of her shirt and stretched the calf of her good leg with a very welcome first couple of steps from the chair. 

Listening to her accusations as they readied to leave, Balfour laughed.

"Me, bribe our incorruptible Mrs Lanningham?" he could just imagine the hex she would send his way! "I ought to question your judge of character, lest we have second thoughts about Hallingfax the Intrepid." And gods knew that they needed more men of daring in the paddocks, lately.

There was a hint of something begrudging in Amherst's tone however, in asking about the field, and he barely kept back the glance that wanted to fall on her leg. It was easy to forget. Her personality overwhelmed the injury.

"Yes," Balfour replied after a pause. "Scotland. I've been asked to observe a hatching- you know how the mothers are." Incidentally the same dragon who had maimed him in late December; not that he held a grudge.

The wizard hesitated, only for a second, between the instinct to invite her to the field or to change the subject.

"How do you feel about Diagon Alley?" he continued smoothly while they made for the door. "There's a rather marvelous place there that usually delivers but I could use a change of scenery."

Margo couldn’t help but burst into a fit of inappropriate laughter.  “You certainly wouldn’t be the first who did,” she pointed out, directed at his comment about her judgment of character.  She was pretty famed, amongst a select few, for making very bad choices concerning a lot of things involving a number of people.  Oh well.  Wasn’t her problem: she was better with animals anyway.

“But, whatever the case, even if she is Intrepid, doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try,” she side-eyed him for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest as though she really was scrutinizing him.  (Of course, Margo knew better: it didn’t appear her boss could lie about anything – let alone something as disingenuous as lying about a bet). 

He couldn’t even lie to her about going to Scotland.  Well, she didn’t really expect it… despite wanting it.  Margo wanted desperately to return to the field, but she wasn’t quick like she used to be and, despite the effort she’d put into it – she wouldn’t get to do much, people would look at her funny.  She hated that. 

Just because she was walking around with a piece of metal strapped to her didn’t mean she was incapable.  But, some people didn’t see it that way.  Sighing, she muttered, “Lucky,” and followed him toward the door. 

She perked up though – he meant to invite her!  How nice! Lunch on the department.  Keen.  “Sounds excellent,” she grinned.  “I’ll grab my jacket! Meet me at my cubicle?” she practically skipped (if she could have without falling on her face) out of the office, saluting Mrs. Lanningham as she went – directly toward her cubicle to grab the black dragon leather (humanely retrieved, of course) jacket she didn’t go anywhere without.  She tried to quickly tug it on (awkwardly contorting her arms to do so) and grunted with frustration as she tried to grab the coat behind her to get at the sleeve… why did clothing have to be so complicated?!

Her mistrust was endearing, which was more than he could say of attitudes in the division when Balfour had initially been appointed. The temperament was part of the territory. Still, how speedily she cheered up! He hadn't even the chance to say anything when she turned around to leave- in the direction of the cubicles.

"Sir," Mrs Lanningham cleared her throat and he glanced at her inquiringly. "May I advise you to be careful?" A sharp light glistened in his secretary's eye.

An unpleasant understanding came to him and Balfour nodded once, curtly. Amherst was his responsibility out there and if she was inflicted with another injury it wouldn't go down well- with anybody.

"You may," the wizard tried not to linger on the thought. "Owl ahead for two packed lunches, won't you please? The report as well, send it out at once." He flaunted a brassy smile and left her with rolling eyes.

Gods knew why Margo had been in such a rush as not to wait for him-but  catching sight of her struggling with a jacket, he speculated that this scuffle was habitual.

"I've had less trouble with Centaurs than you do with clothing-" he goaded and strode prudently to her service. "- perhaps you should have your wardrobe checked for sentience." Balfour held out the jacket sleeve.