3 March 2010
3:50pm, Wednesday
Libertine Ltd., Diagon Alley, London

It had now been four months since Niobe had been arrested.  Four months since she'd been a puddle of tears and shame sat on a bench in handcuffs.   And just about four months since she'd last seen Dominik, since she'd told him to go and not come back.   It felt as if finally, life was returning to a new normal.  She was 33, she was clawing her way back up the ladder at the Daily Prophet, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of any of her murdering ex-boyfriends in months.

Merlin's bones, how in the world did her murderous ex-boyfriends constitute a plural? 

She was marked for sure, the Irish witch turned Londoner, marked by boldness unchecked.  Her reputation was murky, her finger gone, and the Ministry had her name down as a muggle-baiter.  But there was no use wallowing.  One had to always work for something better.  Redemption.  Vindication.  Independence.

Short on friends, long on time, Niobe Thursby opted for some repairative self-care.  Years ago, she'd been bold and bright and golden enough to afford a custom piece of work from Darian Morgan, one of Diagon's best clothiers.  He did mostly wizard's clothing, but that's what she'd wanted.  A perfectly tailored jacket from his imagination. But when she'd taken it out of her closet to wear last weekend out, the damn thing had a mighty gash in the sleeve! The leather torn and the inset loose.  She didn't remember doing it, but hell's bells, she couldn't just let a wound like that fester.

Ding-a-ding, chimed the bell as she entered the lush little shop.  All around her the rich silhouette's of The Libertine. 

At once Niobe was attended by a trim little witch, her face creased into a gentle, enigmatic smile as she led Niobe deeper in. "Welcome," Misa said, nodding her head at the side table with its steaming coffee and tea. Her eyes lingered on the garment in Niobe's arms, and she hesitated. "Mr. Morgan will be right with you."

With no other customers present, the shop was filled with that peculiar hush of a space packed with muffling fabric and expensive luxury. Patterned paper and dark wood shelving coated the walls. There was the faint scent of sandalwood. Barely a minute passed before there was the susurration of shoes on the carpet and the proprietor appeared, polished bright as a button and beaming, his salesman's persona well in place. Like magic Misa melted back to let him take her place, the silent signal of very good help.

"Ah! Ms. Thursby!" he cried when he caught sight of her. His smile, if anything, went up a notch. It dazzled like a spread on Lockhart's loving whites, and thus distracted from the sharpening of his gaze in heightened interest. "What a pleasant surprise. What may I do for you to-day?" Darian had always been a bit miffed about Thursby's penchant for covering topics like murders and politics instead of more important matters (like him), but he tried to stay on good terms with the press. She might one day change her mind.

Of course, she had been in the papers not too long ago for reasons Darian could not condone, led by that pillock Wiedman; both the Wiedman siblings he could do without, their powers of enticement entirely mystifying to him as they yet ensnared his nearest and dearest with their tired charms. It was always so gratifying to see reporters on the wrong end of their own system, and muggle-baiting was a dirty stain. Still, he doubted he could get any good gossip out of her at this point, she would be very tired of people asking and Darian, though seeming sympathetic in the extreme, could only tread lightly. Their sparsity of meetings he could count on one hand.

Darian was a stunning young man.  So much so that he always put Niobe a bit on edge in that, well, how could someone look so clean? Bit of a dandy! But then, since Niobe's taste in men was so garishly disastrous, perhaps she could do to set aside her ego and not be so putt off by someone as put-together as Darian Morgan.  Besides, he was artist and that allowed him a great deal of leeway.

"Darian Morgan," she said his name in greeting and returned his dazzling smile the best she could.  "Hope business is good."

With an apologetic click of her tongue she held up the leather garment and presented the sleeve.  "I'd try mending it myself, but I've never really used that kind of magic before and I'd probably die if I ruined it further."

She glanced up at tall Darian, checking to see where his artists's humors would land.  Offended at a piece of his work had been so carelessly handled? Or maternal and doting, eager to coddle and cote the garment back to health? Businesslike and cold, ready to stitch and switch the product to it's former mint condition?

"No idea how it happened."

Darian looked at the leather garment with the same fond, mild embarrassment one might regard a school photo of their third year. It was an early work. But as she explained the situation his lush lips pursed; he took it from her at once, examining the rip thoroughly, checking the lining inside. Not a natural product of wear and tear, which all his clothing from the very opening of Libertine had been spelled against - she must have snagged it on something unwittingly.

"Well, not a problem," he decided. "Would you prefer it fixed while you wait, or shall I send it to an address?" It wouldn't take but five minutes to have it stitched up - it was the charms he'd need to apply, the illusions he'd weave over the new union of cloth to hide the tear, that would take longer. There was no reason he or Misa couldn't work on it immediately. There were no other customers in the store, and Darian took customer service very seriously.

She was pleased he wasn't angry - that was good for him.  As entertaining as brooding artists were, businessmen were certainly more tolerable.  He was being genteel about it and that set Niobe more at ease.  As much as she enjoyed wearing the finer threads in life, she always felt something of an imposter in the fashion world.  She was neither frilly nor petitte, not tall lean and she tended to dread colors that weren't greys, browns, and green's.  But the Darian Morgan jacket had been a major asset for her closet and helped her feel more apart of the hustle and bustle of London elite.

A prophecy of her name at the editor's desk at the Daily Prophet passed behind her eyes, and she grinned.  What a daft day it was today.

"I'd love to to watch," she said with an indulgent wrinkle of her nose. 

She let him lead the way back, and as they did they passed some fantastic, and fanciful new pieces draped over serenely pouting mannequins who blinked slowly every so often.  "Were you at the opera on New Years?[1]" The question had two possible connotations for a fashion designer.  Was he worn or was he present en corpus? Or both?  Barnabas Cuffe wasn't ready for her whinging that night and Cartwright got to cover the story.  But maybe there was more to tell?

1.	A society event of the year, a red carpet night for the personal guests of the illustrious Ira Almasy. This particular one ended in bloodshed.

So, he was to entertain for a little while longer. Hardly a taxing chore. A natural showman, Darian did like to dazzle when he got the chance. Skill was sexy... or so he'd heard.

He lead Niobe towards the back of the long, rectangular store to a small fitting area. Its usual purpose was quite clear from the tall angled mirrors, the stools, and the triad of dressing rooms tucked to the side. Darian's wand spat out a quick flurry of spells. One of the stools shot up and hardened into a wider work table while needles and thread zipped from a multi-drawered chest. As he circled the table they laid themselves out lovingly for his selection, Niobe's jacket hovering over the surface with its torn sleeve angled for best visibility.

"I'm afraid I had business out of town," he said, spreading his hands with an apologetic smile. Business was one way of putting it. "Fortunate, no? I had so many friends and clients in attendance, even family. Their tales were just ghastly! A nasty affair all around."

He was perpetually aware in his answers of Thursby's profession. The idea occurred to him that she might be here looking for more than a quick repair - after all, he thought with the greatest affection, no one could really ever trust the press. It had been less than a fortnight since the hostage situation at his fashion event, he the first, most visible victim of leader Jean-Luc.[1] The man's penchant for dramatic villainy had earned Darian an urgent audience with Aurors and reporters alike, as well as a legion of owls afterwards. Darian's only comfort in the situation was the opportunity to feed the press wild, fantastical lies.

He especially enjoyed the little doves who came to pester him themselves. "Quotes are for paying customers only," he'd sniff, and watch them scramble for the racks. Eventually that would become monotonous - but oh, it hadn't yet!

If that was what she was here for, Thursby was already cleverer than the rest. He could hardly turn away someone with one of his own garments for repair.

1.	An event for the fashionable and the elite descends into chaos in the ongoing Stopwatch Hearts thread.

Niobe allowed herself to be impressed.  Darian Morgan went about his work with the deftness and poise of a magician, his instruments jumping to his gesture like a ballet.  He was damn good and she smiled.

"Ghastly," she echoed not able to keep a bit of envy from her voice.  She knew it was morbid but after ten years in the business she was no longer long on sympathy when she'd missed out on a fantastic story.  It was just so hard to predict when something newsworthy would strike.  Perhaps she ought to pay more attention to the leads generated by the Prophet's own Divination Desk.  "Shame, though.  I heard the first act was very good."

As aware that Darian was of her questions, she was unabashed about her little companion.  The little Ulterior Motive tucked always in her breast pocket.  She was bold, but worked to build trust with her true friends. 

No leads on the Opera, but there was something she remembered hearing a bit about.  "You had a spot of bother a few weeks ago, didn't you?  A hitch at a show, I heard.  I don't cover fashion," she added apologetically, "so I feel a bit out of the loop."

No real questions.  She wondered if he'd be game to share a few interesting details that the Prophet hadn't already covered.  Personal and professional curiosity; she was quite charmed.

He laughed a little at her black humor, intentional or not. Yes, a shame, because until then the opera had been so good! Smiling, he shook his head as he turned his eyes and his wand on Niobe's jacket. Slender threaded needles worked their way in and out of the garment, the repair of the inner lining visible for a moment through the slashed leather before the needles rethreaded themselves with stronger stuff. They flashed through the leather like silver fish in a stream.

"Ah, don't fret," he told her, light-hearted and amused. "Perhaps you'll make the next tragedy. This could be a sign! You ought to become more sociable." It wasn't lost on him that the latest incidents had all taken place at high society functions, though he was actually rather grateful no reporters or photographers had been present at his own. He was so sure he'd made a front-page picture, and equally sure that the temptation to snap one might have gotten a reporter killed. That would have been, as Thursby said, a shame.

Barely a blink later and the rip was all sewn up. Going at it with half a dozen needles made it much faster work. Darian's stitches were tight, even, and understated but leaving the seam visible was still so very gauche. Certainly it was a more rustic piece but there was a difference between ragged and deliberate ragged chic. It was a matter of craftsmanship, really, and professional pride. Poor Muggles. They could never do this.

Charms were Darian's specialty and the basis of his business. Illusions, too. Considering the leather had once been whole, convincing it to look so again was barely a minor challenge. The stitches made it stronger but when he was done they wouldn't be visible at all.

"Oh, it was nothing too strenuous," he answered - she having asked at last, or at least what seemed like at last, used as he was to less subtle agents. "At least, not for me." He glanced over at her from under the haze of his red lashes. A flash of archness shaped his mouth into mock sympathy, lowered his voice into something more secretive. He heaved a sigh as if of genuine regret. "To say too much would be so insensitive. I was flattered, of course, but to be propositioned by a man - well, one spurned fan became quite irrational."

Was he inviting her out? She watched his face, not the needles, as he advised she be 'more sociable'.  She might be assuming too much, but she couldn't deny that the prospect was interesting.  He was focused on his work again and she watched on.

She'd never really grasped before the complex and skilled magic that went into one-of-a-kind garments.  Darian Morgan wasn't just some idea fellow how liked clothes - he was a craftsman, clearly. An artist.  Watching the small repair made her appreciate fashion more than she probably ever had.  She'd always written it off as frivolous in a way.  The work he'd put into this jacket of hers, it would make her feel very special indeed to put it on again.

He was as sly as she was.  She grinned at the game.  He was so sparing with his details of his benefit's escapades, just enough to make her even more curious without giving anything away that she could use.  Bastard.  And well, that answers that question! Spurning a male fan?

"Hazards of the industry," she said with barest sympathy.  "No need to call the Aurors, I hope?"

This - the charmwork - did require a bit of concentration. It wasn't really the best activity during which to converse. Darian stilled for a minute, his wandless hand absently stroking the leather of the coat. He intended to answer her first before he began.

Evidently Thursby knew more than she alluded - that, or she was unusually canny (forewarned by others in her industry?) to see through his ruse. Her questions didn't pursue his enticingly dropped hints. Darian was disappointed; he had an excellent story, one much more fun than the truth. Oh, well. He supposed that could only work so many times before the press got wise.

Ever-smiling, his mouth twitched in good humor at the thought. Was that an occupational hazard, being propositioned by a man? More of his habits than his profession, one might think. Did she really refer to those rumors? Well well. Ouch.

"Undoubtedly," he replied regardless. "Fashion, you know, full of irrational and artistic souls." He winked.

As for the Aurors, he wasn't sure what a positive answer to that might reveal. Was that a lost point in their little game? Thursby surely could never get copies of the conversation, so he couldn't see how the information might help or hurt either way. Of course, they had very definitely been called. So many fine and expensive things had been stolen, and by now Darian actually knew rather a lot about Jean-Luc's identity and home base. But for purposes of his obsessive fan...

"I decided not to press charges," he disclosed breezily. "Poor thing seemed so heart-broken underneath all the rage."

"You're a patient man," Niobe said kindly with a smile.  "Benevolent even."

For all his local celebrity, Darian wasn't admitting to any malice against the too-familiar affront of his fan.  By his look, though, and the careful pauses, Niobe knew she was missing something.  Well damn.  She couldn't be a Seer all the time, apparently.  It would perhaps require more socializing to learn the language of Darian Morgan's movements.

"Something's just come to mind - that Hogwarts librarian.  Head of Slytherin now, is he? Any relation?" 

It was a change of topic, and a deliberate one.  Feign defeat, feign disinterest and perhaps they could revisit the juicy stuff at a later date.  "Does artistic and reclusive professions run in your family?"

Then she interrupted herself with genuine surprise.  "Bones! You're almost done! How do you do that...?" she marveled.

"Practically a saint," Darian agreed, self-satisfied and purring when Thursby indulged his playacting. Briefly he made a face, long-suffering and sympathetic, that painted him as understanding as any noble Catholic Madonna.

In a quick mixture of Latin and Welsh he wooed the wounded fabric, leather melting into itself as if the scar were never there. It was quicker than the charms he had to layer after, ones to ensure the first spell never weakened and that the split stayed fixed. Then too there was the slight texture and color difference of healed leather which he hid, and finally strengthening spells for the whole garment to avoid a repeat performance. After all, he already had the jacket here and his skill had increased from when he first opened shop; there was no harm in subtly enhancing the thing. The charms weren't difficult for him but he did have to concentrate, and he dropped some of his playful mannerisms while he worked. Niobe's question he heard with half an ear, and he answered absently, "Oh yes, a cousin," without putting much more thought into it until her follow-up inquiry.

Landis was one of Darian's favorite people, drawn as Darian was to those who least appreciated his whimsical nature; to say that the tailor enjoyed annoying his dour relative was a severe understatement. When he paused to absorb Niobe's further questioning it seemed quite unusual to him that she'd know of the Hogwarts librarian and Head of Slytherin. But then again, hers was a profession of information, so perhaps not. Likewise he was a little surprised and disappointed she'd given up on the real story she seemed to be after. Darian was more likely to leak ridiculous tales about Landis to his awestruck students than to Niobe; he couldn't see why the man would interest her.

"Business, rather," he answered, willing to chat even if he couldn't guess her motives. "Most of my relatives work at the Ministry. You know Tarron Knight, of the Wizengamot?" A moment later and his eyes crinkled with amusement. "You think a librarian's profession is artistic and reclusive?" How romantic! He'd absolutely have to tease Landis about that one later.

She noticed the work quickly done at his hands. Darian only smiled. He could always hope impressing her lead to better business, and he enjoyed talking to Niobe. It was almost a shame he couldn't draw it out any longer - well, he could. But he shouldn't. That would be very naughty to his later appointments.

Only a cousin? Meh.  She'd made the effort.  It was something she'd learned from Barnabas Cuffe - one connection could lead to another.  A coy, 'met your nephew the other day' or, 'say i was just speaking with your old schoolmate,' might all that'd be needed to slip your way into a conversation to appear, at least subconsciously, a part of their world.  As old Cuffe had told her, never stop making connections.

And then Darian Morgan name dropped Tarron Knight.  Tarron Knight! Was he trying to impress her? She couldn't hide the curiosity from momentarily washing her features and she laughed quietly.  "Yea. We're pals."  She'd kill for five minutes with the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.  Was he offering?

But lo and behold! Darian was holding up her fixed jacket.  She reached out for it greedily, distracted from her casual journalism by the steamster's quick work.  She had to check both sleeves - the one she'd damaged was so flawless, she thought she must be mistaken the marred one.  But both sleeves were perfect and identical.  Fresh as its first day.

She smiled and nodded, rubbing a thumb over the seamless repair.  "Well magical, Master Morgan.  You've saved me from a life of regret."

From her trouser pocket she drew out her little bag of jangling coins.  She handed him her card first, hoping he'd supply the sum of his fee. 

"Here.  If you ever have a need, you have my ear."  Translation: I have more questions for you, Darian Morgan.