Sitting at her desk, Margo thought her mind was actually going to pop out of her skull.  She’d been in the field for three weeks and now she was back.  Sure, she’d gotten a small bite on her arm, but it was a baby dragon and they were notorious for such things.  It wasn’t as though anyone taught baby dragons etiquette, and Margo had been charged with feeding the things, since that had been her area of expertise when she was in Romania: hunting and feeding. 

The rabbit had just gotten away from her and she shouldn’t have run into the pen… but she was an adult.  And it was barely a wound.  They’d patched her up in no time and there hadn’t even been fire involved.  But now she was back in the office for at least two days and currently, her arms were crossed on her desk and her forehead was pressed into her hands, a spread of paperwork below her that she did not want to do. 

She had to fill out all of this nonsense about what had happened and really it was just punishment for an accident.  She was being punished for the sins of a bloody rabbit. 

So, Margo had to punish everyone else, as a result.  She leaned back in her chair and let her head fall over the back of her chair, letting out a disgruntled shout of frustration.  This was torture.  “Kill me!” she called out to the office.  She didn’t know who shouted out, “wish I could,” in return, but it was a most appropriate remark.  She groaned again (loudly) as she closed her eyes and put her hands over her face: Idiot! 

It was a Friday and, as a rule, he did not come into the office too early if there were no pressing matters to handle. Prerogative of a division head who didn't want have to proof proposals all weekend.

But even Mrs Lanningham knew that he was cutting it close by coming in at this hour of the morning - or at least he gathered as much from the arch of her eyebrows when he stopped by her desk first thing, sunglasses propped up against obvious bedhead while he collected a folder. She didn't particularly approve of his relaxed attire either. Well. He couldn't help it if there had been a handsome wizard in his bed this morning. It leaves you less time to dress.

"You have a meeting," the witch reminded without altering the stern set of her lips. "At four."

Balfour didn't look up from his file, too busy smiling at something completely unrelated to the migratory habits of winged equines. "I'll change," he replied smoothly and was just about to head into the office when Margo's death wail pierced the industrious hum across the desks. Fournier[1], closer rather than farther, quipped a reply.

It wasn't the end of the work week if someone on the fourth floor wasn't wallowing in misery. And really, how could he let that happen to his favourite wingman without rubbing it in a little?

Tucking the file under his arm, Balfour crossed the work area and followed the trail of frustrated sounds to find Margo surrounded by paperwork mountains - looking as well as can be expected under the circumstances. You had to be careful around the young ones. He sat on the edge of her desk and clicked his tongue in mock pity, hands in pockets.

"Bad morning, Margo?" he queried cheerfully. "Vincent doesn't typically want to kill you until lunchtime."

1.	Vincent Fournier, Dragon Tamer NPC

“I’ll return the favor someday!” she returned to Fournier with an even louder sigh to follow.  He laughed and Margo curled her lip.  At least he was having fun of it.  Honestly, she didn’t know how people didn’t go absolutely mad in this office.  Maybe they did.  Maybe that’s why they stayed.  They were all bloody bonkers.  Somehow they’d all been brought to the bloody Janus Thickey Ward without ever knowing it. 

She slid her hands up from her face into her hair and pulled a little, her eyes only opening when she realized that someone was near her and started clicking their tongue.  It was an all too familiar sound, part of Margo’s life since childhood.  Parents, cousins, aunts and uncles – all of them would do the familiar tongue click that signified that she was in trouble.  What’d she do now? 

Quirking one eye open, the smug smile on Balfour’s face was almost too much to bear.  He was so cheerful.  Her second eye followed suit and she sat up with a small groan, squinting her eyes to get a better look at him.

Something was wrong.  Well, maybe not wrong… but different. 

She didn’t even particularly care about fashion or anything of the like, but she knew that he rarely dressed in jeans and what was that thing around his neck?  …Random thing around his neck when it wasn’t even winter yet?  …Margo may not have been the smartest witch in the world, she might not have had a lot of talents… but there were things that Margo knew.  And if there was an auror corps for people who had hooked up with someone the night before, Margo would have been the head of that department in about fifteen seconds. 

Anyone who came in with a random scarf looking thing, extremely cheerful, and later than her (which seemed extremely unlikely for anyone who cared about their job)… Her eyes narrowed even more.  “Balfour Spectre,” she stated his name accusingly, “You didn't even have the courtesy to invite me when you went out prowling?!” She paused a moment before giving him a very obvious elevator glance, "Successfully, it appears!"

How does she do that so quickly?

Balfour lowered the sunglasses over his eyes and grinned in affirmation as his friend gave a thorough look-over. He had felt so mellow coming into work earlier that it took a moment to realise the cheerful humming had been him and not the elevator music. The level five interns were beyond reproach in their amusement. Dialling down the post-sex confidence seemed hardly an option.

"Lone wolf, what can I say?" he picked up a sheet of parchment and pretended to study it. "But I didn't go with the intention to hunt, if that's what you're implying."

Outside of the fourth floor, that wasn't always the best way of phrasing your romantic ideology.

A few heads turned in their direction, ears ever open for new Ministry gossip. Balfour ignored them and tossed the parchment aside before sliding off the desk. He wasn't giving anyone more material for their grapevine - it thrived perfectly without interdepartmental flings thrown into the mix.

"Well, look at the time-" His eyes rose to the (dysfunctional) office clock and he backed up a few steps, towards his office. "- I should be working. I do work here, don't I? It's all rather... foggy in my mind, after last night's storm." Balfour smirked. He flashed his teeth at Margo, turning around.

She would follow, of course. Anything beat paperwork.

Margo snorted.  He was really being cheesy.  Going with the wolf thing… sort of lazy, but he was really… whatever happened last night it had to be good, which was why Margo was completely eating up everything he had to say.  “Even without intentions…” she whined, “you still should have invited me.”

That was true.  He should have invited her.  If she was miserable in London it was basically code that she should be invited anywhere that anyone was going.  She had the uncanny ability to make sure everyone was …happy… by the end of an evening. 

Apparently, Balfour didn’t need her for that though!  Pursing her lips, she was going to ask for more details but he was up and moving – like he actually had important things to do!  Ugh!  Shoving herself out of the chair, her boots hit the ground with a thunk and she sort of fumbled like a baby deer out of the seat and after him for a couple steps.  Stupid leg. 

Worth it though, even if there were a couple sniggers as she tried to regain her footing.  “Piss off,” she sneered at the newest intern: thought he was something because he had both of his feet and didn’t trip over himself.  He still got her coffee when she asked for it. 

Whatever the case, there was talk of fogginess and work and she needed to know, so when they got to his office, Margo immediately shut the door behind her so that prying ears wouldn’t get the drop.  “now spill,” she ordered and leaned against the closed door, staring him down. 

Balfour hung up his jacket as Margo shut the office door.

His office had come a far way since he had first begun work as head of the division. There was proper furniture now, for one, and a broad Persian carpet that ran from his desk to the entrance. Books and files occupied every corner: piled into towers on almost each chair, stuffed into shelves, balancing on the odd stool. It was clearly a place for work rather than play, although the year's recent addition - a narrow couch behind the desk - indicated he spent nights here too. They could thank the epidemic for that.

"Gods, sit down." Balfour pretended not to notice Margo's command and gestured at one of the empty chairs. "I'm not going to make a run for it." He took off the sunglasses and scarf, feeling a bit old for them, and made his way to the side table.

A steel pot rested there, still steaming with pale Darjeeling. Mrs Lanningham was an angel. A terrifying, tea-brewing angel.

"Cup of tea?" He looked over his shoulder as he began to pour - barely managing not to spill a drop. "You look like you could use it, Margo. I'd offer whiskey but-" Balfour checked the hour, properly this time. "-it's a bit early. None of that hair of the dog for me."

The wizard set the pot down before turning around completely, both mugs in hand and a smug smile on his face.

She didn’t think he would run, but… moving from the door seemed like a bad choice.  Pursing her lips, Margo did move a little bit closer when he removed the scarf just to see if there was a stray mark or two from the previous night – just to see if the scarf in the not exactly cold weather… but still. 

From her cursory glance, it appeared she was disappointed.  No sign of visible bites.  Taking a second thought, maybe that wasn’t so much something Balfour wanted done to him… but…  Okay, maybe weird thought… 

Whatever the case, more importantly, he was not following her directions though and moved to tea.  Wrinkling her nose, Margo couldn’t believe he would rather attend to a pot of tea than brag about whatever antics he had gotten up to with whoever he had gotten up to (she giggled quietly to herself) it with.  “I only want tea if it comes with the story,” she pressed and finally sat down in one of the chairs. 

It wasn’t really sitting, more of a graceless plop, but as much as whiskey would be a glorious thing in her life – that wouldn’t be for several hours yet.  “Come on now,” she sighed.  “You know it’s not fair that you’re holding out on me,” she kicked up her leg over the edge of the chair and reached out for the cup of tea that was being offered to her.  “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Balfour didn't drink from his mug yet, leaning against the desk to face Margo in earnest.

If he danced around the topic any further it was very likely someone was going to be cursed and the office had thus far maintained its reputation as a hex-free zone (six months running) for the fourth floor. And she was right. She wouldn't hold out on him, although possibly because she'd take too much pleasure in fleshing out details.

"Alright, alright. I'll play." Balfour toned down the smugness as he cross his legs and stared thoughtfully at the floor. His socks were mismatched."Quick notes?" he glanced back up at Margo. "Le Masque. His move, not mine. There might have been dancing. My bed looks much better with him in it."

He found that he had to stare at something besides the witch, having conjured that image of Johann Storm against his blue bed linen. It was an aesthetic pleasure he didn't feel like sharing with anyone else at that moment.

Although it did remind him of a different matter. "I don't... know if anyone spotted us." Balfour actually knew this was an utter lie, considering the crowd last night. "But, ah, he works here. At the Ministry, I mean. So you might hear things." Judging from the look his secretary had given him, there was a possibility that some people may have already heard things.

"And you may continue to hear things," Balfour said this slowly as it came to him - a mild, creeping insecurity. "If I haven't scared him off, anyway."

Margo couldn’t help but grinning over the rim of her cup as he said he would play along.  “We’ll start with the notes,” she appraised the situation, “but if I need details, you know I’ll ask.”  That much was true, Margo wasn’t one to shy from the details.  It was a rather endearing quality, at least some people thought so.  The family dinner table was not so amenable to her desire to share and be shared with.

Checking off the things on the list, maybe it was better he didn’t invite her.  Le Masque was a little… bougie for Margo’s taste.  She preferred somewhere she didn’t have to dress up to get into.  And wearing a mask?  That was sort of… it didn’t work for Margo. 

But it definitely worked for Balfour and her grin widened as he talked about what happened the previous night.  “Very nice!” she exclaimed, taking a sip from her cup, not even flinching when he said ‘him.’  Margo didn’t judge people for what or whom they liked.  “I imagine that’s why you showed up after me today…?” she left it hanging in the air – he could bite or not.  It would be up to him. 

But, he seemed to think that people might have spotted them and were talking about… and that the other person involved was another ministry employee.  “That’s not a problem,” Margo waved her free hand.  “I mean, I’ve done it before and maybe if you just do other things people want to talk about – you know, like lose a leg… or light something on fire… they’ll talk about that instead.” 

It was just about as close to advice as Margo could give to anyone, and the closest to decent advice she’d probably ever give.  Merlin willing she’d never have children or they’d have to deal with the ridiculousness that was Margo Amherst.  “And, I mean, outside of maybe some scars, you’re hardly terrifying Spectre.” 

Taking in a deep breath, she puffed out her cheeks and furrowed her eyebrows.  “Unless there’s something you’re neglecting to tell me,” she added, turning her head a bit, “a dirty little secret, perhaps?”

He didn't feel like confessing to the motivations behind that morning's tardiness - watching Johann sleep wouldn't pass muster as an excuse to anyone but him - so Balfour let the implication pass as he took his tea.

Margo's nonchalance at Ministry gossip was just what he needed to hear. He never paid mind to those things and didn't understand the value of it, so hearing as much from somebody else was reassuring. Even if that someone else had a flurry of rumours surrounding their own behaviour. Nobody could tell him she wasn't a good person to have around in a tough situation.

“And, I mean, outside of maybe some scars," the witch continued, "you’re hardly terrifying Spectre."

Balfour laughed and licked his lip, embarrassingly aware of his reputation of being a nice fellow. "A failure to live up to my surname," he agreed. He wasn't entirely sure how it happened - one moment he's wrangling dragons and the next he's a complete sweetheart, apologising for accidentally placing a hand on somebody's knee. There were more contradictions in his persona than the Witch Weekly would be happy to speculate on; if he was ever called out on the hidden broadcasts, they would have a field day.

Still, there wasn't much to hide much from Margo. She knew about his animagus form, which wasn't something many people did. Balfour considered her question briefly, tilting his head to the side the way he did whilst trying to solve a problem.

"Hm. Dirtier than some would prefer, perhaps." With a thoughtful look, he set down the tea and moved to the side table to recover a pack of cigarettes. "Fuck. I shouldn't worry. I've given him Bluebeard's key, and I've shown him the door." Shaking the pack, a stick slid out and he placed it to his mouth - unlit. "He didn't run away screaming."

But there had been some screaming.

Drawing similarities with a sociopathic aristocrat probably wasn't the best comparison. Balfour returned to the table, this time falling into the seat behind it as he fixed Margo with a grim smile. "It isn't the kink I'm worried about. Joha--" he stopped himself abruptly, uncertain about betraying something that was nobody else's business. "Never mind. This is ridiculous."

"Hm. Dirtier than some would prefer, perhaps."

Margo sent a wink his way as she sipped her tea with the look of a cat who had caught the canary.  It wasn’t necessarily her thing, at least not all of it – Margo was actually a lot tamer than many people might have imagined her to be (or what gossip would lead them to believe), but Margo was open minded, and certainly not judgmental.  “I don’t suppose you care about what the some would think in this case,” she observed. 

There seemed to be a very specific person (who she still did not know) that he was focused on.  He probably dropped a clue or something, but Margo was frightfully bad at picking up on that piece.  She could spot a walk of shame or stride of pride from across the office, but finer details were lost on her.  It was also lost on her as to why he didn’t offer her a cigarette. 

Sure, it wasn’t like she smoked regularly… or even irregularly… but there was maybe something about the topic or the private nature of this little story time that made her lick her lips and stare at them a little too long.  Shaking her head, she reminded her that she did not smoke and that she should not want one.  She managed to have enough restraint to not even ask for one. 

She kicked her other foot up when Balfour took his seat behind the desk so she was sort of cradled in the seat and nodded as he spoke.  “If you haven’t kept any secrets and he didn’t head for the door, it doesn’t sound like you need to worry,” she shrugged and took a sip of tea.  Maybe there was something Margo was missing, but she didn’t think it had to be this complicated. 

Granted, for her, things didn’t usually get to the point of complicated… if she could help it.  And when she couldn’t help it – generally St. Mungo’s was involved (she ahd a terrible track record).  Turning her head to raise her eyebrows at him, she got half a name!  Joha… she knew she’d get it eventually… Joha… it almost distracted her from the real point of what he was talking about and that was something he was getting all hung up on. 

“Don’t go about sabotaging yourself,” she took another sip of tea, “I mean: trust me when I say I am the bloody queen of unintentional wrenches thrown into things,” Dugan MacDuff, prosthetic leg, dementors, failed drunken proposals… the list could probably go on, “But you should listen to yourself if you think you’re ridiculous.  I certainly do.  I mean, you come in looking like the cock of the walk and now you’re thinking about questions?  Mate, I’d go with the line of thought that resulted in that strutting from earlier.  Much better color on you.” 

He leaned back in his chair, nodding once at the witch across.

"You're a good friend Margo." It did sound an awful lot like he was trying to sabotage this... thing with Johann. "Oh wise queen." Balfour sunk into a long, deep sigh before he tried to sit up straight again. Between wrapping up the tail-end of the epidemic and trying to drink his weight in firewhiskey some nights, it was hard to reconcile actually enjoying somebody's company in that way.

In addition to their physical proclivities. A ghost of a smile caught at the corner of his lips, mind wandering down that small stretch of paper pale skin between chin and collarbone. He hoped Johann didn't charm away the bites. It made him unreasonably pleased to fancy that they were hidden instead.

Balfour cleared his throat, realising that he'd let the pause get away with itself. "Right. Sorry. Nothing to worry about-" unless you counted losing track of the hours as cause for concern, "- forget I said anything." He checked his pocket and found his wand, twirling it upright to light the cigarette.

Cigarettes, coffee and toothpaste. Was he smiling? Ah, bloody hell, he was smiling.

There wasn't a point in suppressing it - they were better off if he got it out of his system before a meeting about more sombre subjects. Wouldn't do to be humming club music while trying to explain to level three how one of their dragons had nearly crossed right into muggle territory last week.

"You'll keep an ear out on the grapevine for me?" Balfour knew that Margo had a better handle on it than... well, then he did. "You know I can't be bothered with that sort of thing."

Whenever the Witch Weekly decided to write anything about him, bringing a copy on to the fourth floor was considered a punishable crime.

“I know,” Margo waved off his compliment of her being a good friend, “someone must be both benevolent – and ruling,” she teased.  She imagined some people even might be surprised to know she knew a word like benevolent.  Margo didn’t really have much of an academic side, but she could at least learn new words when they were used in front of her.  People didn’t usually give her that sort of benefit though.

It was sort of accepted that she was… good at what she was good at.  Many pats on the head had been thrown her way through her years at Hogwarts and letters about  blowing things up or lighting classes (and classmates) on fire were sort of par for the course when it came to her education.  She was good with the animals, one of her aunts would always say, and they would all nod and hum about how fitting that was. 

She supposed they were right, it was fitting.  But, she was at least a little happy with the fact that she could use a big word.  It made her sip her tea sitting up a little straighter (though not with moving – Merlin forbid she leave this nestled position anytime soon). 

Blafour seemed lost in the moment though and she raised her eyebrow.  “Something too good to stop thinking about?” she smirked.  She knew that look.  Hell, she invented the look.  When he said to forget about it, she just shrugged her shoulders and did as he said.  He could have his silly baby lust thoughts that would grow into whatever he chose to make of it if he didn’t get in his own way instead. 

Of course, he didn’t tax himself with keeping an ear to the ground – Margo was charged with that.  Not particularly surprising.  As much as she pretended she wasn’t into the gossip about the office, she knew a lot of what was going on.  It was much easier to listen to the goings on around her than filling out forms and completing reports.  And it was like no one had anything but each other to talk about – except dragons, and here that wasn’t… fun. 

At the reserve, at least, a chat would lead to actually doing something.  Here it was ‘Oh, that’s nice.  Fill out this form, would you?’  It drove her absolutely mad.  So being given the task, she nodded curtly.  “I’ll keep my ears open, boss,” she winked at him- like some kind of old timey American radio show.  “Anything else I can do for you?” she grinned, “hunt down a lost diamond?  Find the missing child of a long lost relative who recently turned up out of nowhere with a mysterious scar near her lip?” Too much fun. 

Odin have mercy on them if ever Margo were in a position of power in the department. He fancied that the very notion probably kept Mrs Lanningham up at night.

Balfour bit his inner cheek and repressed a modest smile on being caught out in his little reverie - you could hardly blame a man who has to deal with so tempting an inducement as Johann Storm. It was far too early in the day for him to be fantasising about returning to bed. Pointless, really, seeing as how the inducement concerned was not in it. "Unfortunately," he replied through a resigned sigh. "I'll have to stop thinking about it if we're to get any work done today."

Meetings. Nobody liked meetings. An afternoon out in the field, even if it mean tending to the infected dragons, would have been preferable to explaining an accident to Quill Som.

The fourth floor had a definite allergy to explanations. Sometimes creatures just did things - you couldn't always keep a leash on them.

"Have you begun moonlighting as a private investigator?" Balfour laughed at his colleague's generous offers, pushing away that image of leashes before it intruded on less professional inclinations. "Just the grapevine, thank you. Down on fifth," he didn't have much experience with level five beyond their trade debacle when the epidemic was on the rise. "And maybe you should tag along this afternoon's meeting if you're done with reports by then."

It was generally a personal preference but Balfour might be safe to assume that interaction with other people was still higher up the ladder than having to fill out forms all day.

Margo shrugged: who needed to get work done today?  She certainly wasn’t making headway on anything and she didn’t want to get to it at all. It was much easier to talk about Balfour’s nighttime indiscretions than the work she needed to get done.  It was different to do things she wanted to do. 

These forms were not the work she wanted to do.  “A good distraction never hurt anyone… in the office,” she added wisely at the end.  In their line of work, a distraction in the field could be deadly.  But, in the confines of the ministry it was usually what was required to survive.  Margo certainly didn’t begrudge anyone that luxury. 

It was also why she hadn’t made a move to get out of the comfortable chair yet.  Even if Balfour seemed to be caving under the pressure to work, she was going to hold steady for at least a couple of more minutes.  The tea in her cup wasn’t just going to drink itself, after all. 

“Meeting?” Margo was halfway between disgusted and relieved.  Meetings were boring, she usually just got to sit quietly and interject at the moment she had something to say, only to be silent again for a while… but then again… paperwork?  It was like being squished between two awful, huge boulders.  They both sucked.  Shrugging, Margo sighed.  “Sounds better than forms,” she finally resolved and emptied the last of her tea from her cup.

She swallowed and kicked her feet back over to the floor, her boots thunking as she rearranged herself.  “Got my ears out and I’ll be at the meeting,” she grinned.  “Details via paper plane?” she queried, still reticent to fully get up and out of the chair.