0930 hours Witch Weekly offices, Diagon Alley


"Is Sandy in? I need a quick word."

Balfour Spectre had never quite heard his own voice, crisp and pleasant, so at odds with the intentions in his chest as he spoke to a desk witch at the reception of Witch Weekly. He was still dressed immaculately in a set of white shirtsleeves and navy velvet robes. Ministry clothes, on account of having just come from level four where there had held an urgent morning conference with the Nundu handlers from Dar es Salaam.

Mrs. Lanningham had tersely passed him this weekend's copy of Witch Weekly, open to the article in question. His son's oblivious and happy face took up a substantial portion of the main gossip column.[1] Feliks. Poor, nervous Feliks who hadn't even known about Balfour until last month.

He wanted to crack somebody's skull. Bal wasn't certain whose, at first, when he apparated down to Diagon and made his way towards the offices in quick, unhurried steps. Lil Snigger, maybe, but nobody knew what Lil Snigger looked like! And what if she was a witch?

Ira was the only witch he could voluntarily injure. It was only when he approached the desk that he knew exactly who he was looking for. Balfour had seen the man's photo before,  in some award ceremony[2] tosh or another. He'd forgotten the surname but the first name had stuck, as he didn't know many fellows who were called Sandy.

The receptionist smiled at the question, mirroring his polite expression with her own manic edge. "May I ask who is requesting him?" she asked cheerfully and Balfour's teeth showed a little.

"I think you know who I am," he leaned against the high desk and felt his jaw draw taut. The magazine hosted a bloody fan club for him, in his bachelor days, this was ridiculous. "You know what? Never mind. I'll just pop in quickly, aye? Don't trouble yourself."

She quickly rose to her feet - sadly not quickly enough. Balfour walked past the desk towards the offices beyond, with the easy manner of a wizard rarely refused things in life. His stride was sprightly but he held his wand in a death grip.

1.	Secret Lovechild of a Murderess - 24th September 2011
2.	With permission from Milly!

Sandy Misslethorpe owned the majority in Witch Weekly. He had another job as well. He was Deputy Head Healer of St Mungo's. He came to the office sometimes. This month he had already come more than he liked. Today he was here to check proofs. They were for a new feature sponsored by Lipwitch. The magazine needed to please Shizune Morrell. Sandy wanted a smooth relationship. The group checking over the proofs on the table all turned round. The witch on the desk was shouting. Sandy saw a wizard. He was not an employee. He took a second to place him. There had been enough articles on him. They locked eyes.
"C-can we help you sir?" Sandy asked loudly. He hated his stutter.

The bloody receptionist was yelling, likely with the foresight of someone who knew an avenging force when they saw one. In spite of the many gazes drawn towards his figure, Balfour pretended not to hear a word being said. He simply strolled into the bullpen and cast his eye around so that he could quickly find the wizard in question.

Wixes were running to and fro on various errands, whilst several typed noisily away at various desks in the office. Many were gathered around a large table plastered with colourful papers: it was here that he finally spotted Sandy's familiar face.

            "C-can we help you sir?" came the insipid query.

"I believe you can." Balfour replied in his calm approach towards the table, and he flicked his wand ahead of him so quickly and so precisely that the people surrounding Sandy had barely a second to step back in their surprise. A forceful Infligo shot out at the older wizard.

Sandy's feet left the floor. He landed on the proofs. The curse winded him. He should spend less time here. It was not good for him. Sandy found his wand. He used a non-verbal shield. He sat up on the table. His staff pointed their wands.

Sandy held his hand up in surrender. He did not let down his shield. "Hang on now sir!" Sandy cried. He hissed to the witch nearby. "Genevieve why is Balfour Spectre hexing me?"

This was perhaps the first Saturday in a few months where Genny García-Gamp had woken without a hangover. The night before, quite surprisingly, she’d stayed at home and behaved herself. Today, with Sandy in, she’d felt the need to be fresh faced and level headed, especially after their last meeting. she wasn’t his favourite person right now, quite understandably.

So, when Balfour Spectre had barged through the bullpen and into the conference room, Genny was on her feet in an instant. They’d had angry members of the public barge in before, it rarely ended well. Staff around the room had brandished wands and Sandy was sprawled across the table, various sheets of parchment having ben flung into the air.

Then he hissed at her.


Balfour Spectre… Now she recognised him! Immediately, Gen knew that she’d have to start really sucking up to keep her job. She needed to talk fast. ‘I don’t know’ simply wasn’t going to cut it but Genny was suddenly aware of the still brandished wand in the hand of an angry father.

“I’m not the oracle.” The witch retorted, stepping away from the table and Balfour Spectre. “But, if you’d let me hire security…” No, not the time, Genny.

He was quite angry enough to want to stun every last person in Witch Weekly - and would have tried, at least, if not for the fact that Sandy rather put up a pathetic spectacle. There were other wands pointed in Balfour's direction. He had eyes only for the man trying to figure out the purpose behind this assault; the blatant hissing at a nearby woman was not easily missed.

"It's one thing for you to publish rubbish about my own person or my fiancé -" he spoke through gritted teeth and held his wand in an active capacity, "- but you've crossed a fucking line, to write as you have about a child."

Witch Weekly, of course, spared no one. It never spared Potter in days past and it would not spare the children of criminals in this age either. Maybe it should be made to. Balfour was beyond furious but he had two angels sitting upon his shoulders, in the form of caution on behalf of Johann and Feliks.

"And you'd claim ignorance?" his eyes flashed, from Sandy to the witch who'd spoken, and then back to the man. "Don't you even bloody know what it is you've done? To my son, to my family?"

What exactly was he and the other owners paying Genevieve to do again? She was in charge. Why was he getting the hexes?
"Ignorance sir. Because the editor approves stories not me." Sandy said. He got back to his feet. He pointed his wand at Balfour. His stutter was gone again. Thank goodness! He tried to remember Spectre's story. The boy at Hogwarts. Ira Almasy. "Nothing is a secret at Hogwarts. You know as well as I."

The owner of Witch Weekly, dropping his stutter, collected himself and raised his wand in return. Balfour had an absurd image in his mind just then - of the two of them duelling in this hellish office with the impish staff still training their weapons of defence upon him. It was exactly the sort of thing the magazine would write about later. And he fell into their bloody traps each damned time!

            "Nothing is a secret at Hogwarts. You know as well as I."

"It wasn't your secret to tell." Balfour lowered his wand abruptly, biting the inside of his cheek. "It wasn't even mine," he flicked his gaze towards the other wixes who had been around the table. "And now my son has to pay for your ignorance? And your editor's depravity?"

As much as it might sting a man like Sandy to be hexed in his own office, Bal knew that it was nothing compared to how poor Feliks would feel once word of Witch Weekly got out in school. And Johann! Johann, who was with Camille right now, oblivious to this.

Sandy, without further ado, threw Gen under the trampling hippogriff because things had gotten difficult. How the bloody hell did he cope with angry relatives at the hospital? How did he cope with the wrath of Miranda Storm on a daily basis?!

"Nothing is a secret at Hogwarts. You know as well as I."

Genny visibly grimaced. She’d not wanted to publish Koko’s story; it hitting far too close to home for her. By printing this, would it open the floodgates to people judging her own son? His father was a convicted Death Eater, a murderer and a torturer. What was to stop people putting harsh words about him into print? She knew how she and Dante would feel it it ever happened.

Unfortunately, personal bias couldn’t stop the printing of stories that would sell. The secret son of Ira Almasy was a record breaker when it came to copies sold. Wasn’t that her job?

Depravity!? Perhaps not harsh enough words when Gen thought about it.

“How long did you plan on keeping it a secret, Mr Spectre? If my reporter hadn’t covered this, who do you think would have?” Gen was all too aware of the heat turning on her, but even she couldn’t let Sandy take it all. He was merely a bystander, in reality.

“Kathy, fetch Mr Spectre a drink. Tea? Coffee?” Her voice was quiet, clearly nervous as she attempted a placating tone.

Sandy was going to counter! He had found his stride. The hex had helped there. His editor interrupted. Stepping up to do her job.
"Less our ignorance or depravity." Sandy agreed rashly. "More his father's. To think nobody would notice you gaining an eleven year old son." It was a free press. You did not get to say what they printed. You got an opinion. You did not come in a private office and hex people for an opinion!! "The engagement. Congratulations by the way. Only drew more attention." Sandy bristled.

He had come to lecture devils in hell!

Balfour kept himself in check, though he was sorely tempted to raise his wand against the witch who promptly disclosed herself as the magazine's editor - Queen G, he knew she was called from previous perusals. With initial fury out of his eyes Balfour recognised her from the photographs now. She had the gall to offer him a drink, as if anything he swallowed here would taste softer than pure poison.

But he could swallow his anger. Even when Sandy opened his mouth to insinuate that, somehow, Balfour should have outed his own son to public cruelty or speculation barely a month since his arrival. He could swallow it, turn around and leave.

            "The engagement. Congratulations by the way. Only drew more attention."

Oh, in Fenrir's name, no he couldn't.

"Kindly fuck off, Sandy." Balfour growled and flicked his wand, with a delicate twist rather than the rashness of a hex. "Convacies," the Scotsman incanted in the other man's direction.

The situation had been calming. Balfour Spectre was about to probably leave, having not received the rise and the fight he’d come to Diagon Alley looking for.

But Sandy opened his mouth and started calling the angry wizard brandishing a wand depraved. That may have been just about manageable. But then he dragged up the engagement and how the pair of wizards had dragged more attention to their new son. This was why Sandy was a healer and now a reporter, it was why he certainly wasn’t in Law Enforcement!

What had been an improving situation immediately escalated and Genny watched on in horror as Spectre one again hexed her boss. In an instant, her own wand was out and pointed at Balfour’s chest.

“Put that wand down, Sir!” Her voice had lost its nervousness. “You’ve just attacked a healer! Law Enforcement Patrol were called the instant you stepped foot in here so you better put that blasted wand down before you cause yourself more trouble! Then how will your son feel?”

He was hexed!! It went dark. Sandy touched his face. His eyes were wrong. If he could see his reflection. He could fix it. He was a spell damage healer! Genevieve was shouting.

"G-get a photographer in here!" Sandy said. He hoped he said it to the advert designer. "Nobody leaves until the patrol gets here. You are all witnesses." He said to the rest. He was not sure where everyone was. Balfour Spectre would not get off. "Someone tell me how my eyes look. I need to fix whatever the bastard has done." Sandy blinked lots. He put a hand out to grab a person.

Raine was 110% certain that Solomon Carstairs was testing her.

She had done many many non-Auror things since becoming a trainee. Registering animagi[1]. Legwork and surveys[2]. Babysitting little Pratts[3]. And this morning, upon arriving at the bullpen, Carstairs had dropped that weekend's copy of Witch Weekly on the desk she'd commandeered from an absent Auror. She already knew who Feliks was: they'd sent some Aurors down to Edinburgh when the boy arrived last month. Raine hadn't met him yet, so the article was upsetting in a distant and surreal way.

Nothing about Witch Weekly surprised her anymore. She felt almost impressed that Lil Snigger went all the way to Moscow to dredge this up.

That was, at any rate, what led on to Carstairs telling her to deal with the alert from the magazine's HQ in Diagon Alley. She secretly suspected he thought it would be funny to send her down.


---

In her dark trainee robes and with her curls braided back, Raine supposed she commanded at least enough authority to do this. Nobody in Witch Weekly was a Dark Wizard.... perhaps some day they would actually trust her with real Auror tasks. She showed her Ministry credentials at the front desk, and entered the offices with her wand at hand.

There was already a commotion. Raine had to push through a crowd of teeming journalists before she caught sight of Balfour Spectre hexing the co-owner of the magazine.

            “Put that wand down, Sir!” cried the surprisingly reasonable Queen G.
"G-get a photographer in here!" exclaimed Spectre's victim.

They were all armed adults, and Raine felt very young and very short all of a sudden. She stepped into the wide berth everyone had given the three people - Misslethorpe's hand landed on her shoulder.

"It's an eyeball hex, sir." Raine replied politely, feeling Balfour's gaze snap straight to her as she spoke. He lowered his wand. A few people in the crowd recognised her telltale hair. "I've been sent by the DMLE to resolve a reported disturbance. Mr. Spectre," she continued as if though they were complete strangers. "You will allow me to take you into temporary custody and be escorted to the Ministry of Magic. Now, please."

It wasn't a question. He looked surprised to see her, to the point of shock. Perhaps Carstairs wasn't just being funny.

1.	Oh Paperwork - 20th June
2.	Oh, yes. Quite the Tragedy. - 1st Aug
3.	Here Come the Pratts - 19th Aug

Sandy’s eyes seemed to have rolled back in his head, yet, apart from demanding a photographer to seal the whole incident in print and demanding no one leave, he was astonishingly calm. Gen would have screamed and freaked out something rotten. Sandy? He simply asked a very sensible question.
Just as a red headed teenager entered the office and Sandy grabbed her; a red head that Genny herself had written about, Ira Almasy’s niece, the girl related to the murderess and psychopath that had spawned a child with the wizard who’d just hexed her boss twice!

“Sol, you bloody beauty.” Witch Weekly’s editor muttered under her breath, working hard to conceal the grin that threatened a takeover of her previously concerned features. Rain Almasy may as well have come wrapped in paper with a sparkly bow on her head. Where was that damned photographer?

“You’re not taking statements, Miss Almasy?” Gen queried, lowering her own wand. “This man has just barged into our office and assaulted the magazine’s owner!” And if it wasn’t handled properly, the next issue of Witch Weekly was going to be scathing. “Look at him! This,” she waved a hand at Balfour, “brute just blinded the Deputy Head Healer of St Mungo’s!”