M for dumb sex jokes

26 Sept 2011
Monday @ 11am

Figaro's schedule at the Daily Prophet left him strange witching hours, which had become atrophying to his social life. The largest magical newspaper in Britain never slept, and he was irregularly called in for graveyards, painful early, and evening deadlines. It was common for him to be on the pavement or newsroom ten to twelve hours in one go. Not a lot of time left over to mess around. Didn't help that his living arrangement with Zelig Trumble hadn't worked out and he was in a tiny studio flat in Bromley at the moment. His mum had given him a plant. And Frank had contributed his plush manticore.

At least music existed. On this odd Monday morning, he was in his Falmouth Falcons jersey and grey hat, poking through a discount rack in search of a classic Hawkshed Attacking Formation album; one he didn't already have.  They were loud, lyric heavy, and disinclined to The Man.

Figaro heard the dingly bell on the door, and he glanced up. A familiar face: Virgil Carstairs. He'd been in his year at school, and remembered him being tight with Raine Almasy. With whom Figaro was currently on... hexing terms. Virgil was among the more laid back of the people Figaro knew, not a bad bloke at all, if a bit Slytherin-y.

Fig raised a hand in a casual wave.

It was rare enough to see someone of his cohort around London since they finished Hogwarts, and on a Monday morning even.

He had to get out of the Ministry, Yavin was training the Unspeakables in the Brain Room to protect their thoughts from the encephala and it was driving Virgil up the wall watching them fumble. They were the only ones on level 9, besides the Head and a few others, who knew that he was a Leglimens so they forgave him his snappish remarks. Perhaps they were just as relieved when he took his break a little earlier than usual.

Which was how he found himself strolling into Reducto before the lunch rush hour on a Monday morning. He only wanted to see if they'd finally received the record her ordered. In fact, Virgil was so focused on this that he almost missed the other patron in the Falmouth Falcon jersey.

Was that Sellaphix? The Hufflepuff had hardly changed since Hogwarts.

"Still listening to trite, are we?" he greeted the other boy, approaching him with a sleepy little smile as his pale eyes shifted towards the rack of records. "Or is this your idea of a musical education?" Virgil plucked out an album cover that depicted a banshee that appeared to be screaming at a Hebridean Black at the top of a mountain range.

He pulled a face.

The young wizards' energies were a contrast: the languid and thoughtful and keen Virgil against the merry and unguarded and undeterred Figaro. Both of them at ease in the juxtaposition.

The latter met Virgil's friendly snark with a vapidly blank stare and a slow presentation of a magical Monkees cover band. "Pardon me, but 'tisn't this cultured enough for you? Not even opened."  True to claim, it was still wrapped in clear cellophane.

But more to the point. "Nice shoes."

They were a mighty pair.  Severely pointed, golden brown and chocolate black, with an opinionated buckle. He couldn't keep a straight face. In actuality, he didn't care what other people wore, but you can't not say something about shoes like those.

Fig kept on flipping through the stacks. He rather doubted he'd find what he was looking for, but browsing was half the adventure. Where else were you going to see such devastatingly earnest album art depicting a hazy studio photograph of a witch in an impossibly long turtleneck sweater holding a mandrake made of yarn as if it were her baby.

"You're related to that MLE bloke, are you?" he asked.

Virgil grinned, batting away the cover band record like it had made a rude joke about his mother. At least Figaro could tell apart the genuinely atrocious from the nauseatingly mainstream. There was an art to being atrocious. The truly awful musicians had to be miles away from self-awareness to produce the shite they did.

            "Nice shoes."

"Mm, we can't all survive on a steady diet of sports jerseys and trainers, can we?" he joined the other boy proper, facing the rack to thumb through the discount records. Since graduating from school uniforms to a full-time wardrobe of whatever-the-fuck-I-want Virgil had drawn remarks with his fashion choices.[1]

It was an especially pleasurable way of expressing himself, and he was enjoying the process. Sometimes the remarks helped him to understand how he felt about his own ensembles.

"Solomon? Yes, I suppose. Some distant cousin of my mother's." Virgil drew out an album that caught his eye, examining its cover curiously. "Why?" he glanced at Figaro, one pale eyebrow going up. "Thinking about joining the Auror Corps? I don't think red is your colour."

1.	Virgil's Polyvore collection, for reference.

Figaro pictured himself on the tiny balcony at his one-room flat in the rickety plastic chair, gnawing on a shoe as the sun set upon the hazy skyline. Ah to be a young wizard on his own in the city. It was the pastoral idyll.  Too bad trainers were so expensive; might be a welcome change from cup noodles.

Virgil joined him at the rack. Every so often, he'd slide out sad or funny ones for Virgil's evaluation. Then he'd let them drop back in to be forgotten.

When Virgil referred to the wizard Figaro had encountered - the threateningly calm, high ranked official who had Fauna and Raine saluting - as "Solomon", Figaro couldn't help but glance at him in a moment of 'are you serious?'

"Absolutely, I'd die first. Can you imagine going directly from school to being ordered around by self-important thugs day and night? No thank you. Prefer getting screamed at by self-important editors."

He said as he did a sarcastic little dance, not looking up from Oboe Army's 1992 self-titled single.

Virgil bit his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing, unable to help picking up on the ridiculous image emanating from the other wizard's mind. What a fun place it must be to live, the inside of Figaro's head. It did make him feel a touch guilty.... nobody should have to eat ramen all the time. He made sure that Ari and Nick ate at least one very good home-cooked meal every week. But Merlin knew what they paid assistants at the Prophet.

Ariadne worked there too but she was a proper trainee.

Virgil shrugged when Fig shot him an odd look. He called all his older relatives, and his parents, by their first names. They didn't always like it but they accepted it.

"Thugs?" he snorted at this description of the aurors, tucking the whale song album under his arm and shaking his head at Oboe's Army. "Perhaps you attract self-important people." Virgil made a thoughtful noise. "Figaro Sellaphix: professional scapegoat and hex dummy."

Fig scoffed in agreement, and shook his head.

"Ha. You're telling me, mate. Bloody hell."

Figaro was about to move on to another topic, ask about what weird shit went on in the Department of Mysteries, but he stopped.  Hex dummy? Figaro turned again to face Virgil, leaning on the rack.

"Wait. Do you know?" He asked the question as casually as he could. If he didn't, he'd make something up.  "Did Raine Almasy say something to you? About me?"

It'd been weeks, things had blown over at work, and he hadn't run into anyone in ages. He'd be annoyed if Blake or Almasy or someone had blabbed. I mean, he wouldn't be able to blame them - it was hilarious and he'd have done exactly the same.

He narrowed his eyes. No. Virgil didn't know. Raine and Blake, they were classy like that.

He hesitantly put away an album by The Lemonless Orchard, wondering if it was already in his collection. And then Figaro turned in his direction with abrupt seriousness. Seriousness of mind anyway - Virgil could tell he was trying to play it off as something matter-of-fact. Poor, poor Hufflepuff.

            "Wait. Do you know? Did Raine Almasy say something to you? About me?"

The idea of Raine ranting to him about level two incidents was enough to make Virgil laugh, and the corners of his sulky mouth only tugged further at Fig's expression. He angled himself away from the rack as well, taking his whale song record into his hands and pensively running his fingers along its side. It made sense that Sellaphix didn't know.

"You mean, do I know that Almasy fried your balls for trying to sneak into level two?" he spoke at a regular volume but a few other patrons glanced over at his words. "She didn't have to say. It's been making the usual rounds in the Ministry grapevine." Virgil lowered his voice now, meeting Figaro in the eye. "Is it true you can't.... you know, anymore?"

He made a gesture with his free hand, wrapping and smoothing its grip along an invisible shaft.

M, for sexual references

Figaro groaned in disgust. "Sod it..."

This was not the most uplifting news, but he couldn't be surprised. Everyone loved a good kick-in-the-balls story. Working in the Ministry must be a soul-crushing slog for anyone with any self-awareness so, on balance, Fig had done them all a public service. Or something.

A fussy old wizard in the classical section was staring, now. And Virgil had begun pantomiming deftly, with the quality of performance and grace in sync with Virgil's whole deal. Fig managed to keep eye contact without breaking.

It wasn't an uncommon thing for young wizards to bait each other in this way. And it wasn't uncommon for the bait to be taken up as cause for escalating masculine hostility. Defense of one's manhood and all that. Fig, in his days, couldn't be arsed.

Even at his expense, it was hilarious. With a little less subtlety:

"More like..."

Fig propped his left elbow as low as he could against his body, so that his fist projected out between then, an illustrative facsimile. With his right hand, he lit his wand's tip on fire and mimed a virile, flaming, erm, eruption. If anyone was going to be having fantasies about his bits, he'd rather he controlled the narrative.

He made an accompanying sound effect.

At the main counter, the fussy old wizard was now having a word with the manager.

Virgil grinned, stifling a whoop of laughter and ducking his head slightly as his cheeks flushed. Some things never changed - he felt like he was in one of the four common rooms again: trading crude jokes and causing prudes like Dimbledy to turn their noses up at the general male population. The generally disagreeable thoughts of their elderly bystander caused Virgil to turn his head in the direction of the counter.

"Come of it Jack!" he called out, recognising him as a regular. The manager, a brunette witch, looked like she didn't know whether to cackle or yell.  "You have one too, don't you?"

Not waiting for a response, Virgil turned back to Figaro. "I take it everything is in working order then," he glanced coquettishly at the other wizard's nether regions and cocked his own boney hip to lean against the discount rack. "To think Almasy could have been responsible for putting you out of commission. A tragedy for wixes everywhere."

It certainly sounded like her sort of agenda. There was something startlingly delightful about the fact that she shared rooms with kind Unicorn Girl.

"What possessed you to sneak into level 2?" Virgil asked, genuinely curious. "Doesn't sound like you even like their thugs." He always assumed the only people stupid enough to try were the ones who idolised or despised those red robes - Fig seemed like he didn't, um, give a fig either way.

"You want me to test it out?" Figaro suggested with a laugh while Virgil draped himself on the albums. Flirt!

"Pft!" Figaro turned back to the albums. What it must be like to be Virgil, apparently weaving in and out of people, like a pale, slick, little mink. Always seemed to be a half step ahead. Even at Hogwarts, seemed as if Virgil always knew something no one else did. Figaro wore everything on his sleeve, which was less complicated, but not so. Mink-ish.

"First off, I don't sneak. I barge," he said, conversationally. "Or stroll blithely. I've sauntered before. Whichever. I was just poking around, to see how far I could get. Maybe bring back a lead or something and I'd get a cake."

He hadn't really thought there'd be any cake, but he could imagine what it would be like. Cuffe slicing a big piece from a massive cake with Figaro's face on it.

"Things got away from me a bit because Fauna Blake is earnest enough to melt paint off walls."

He moved down a row, and kept flicking through. He was almost as miffed at Fauna as he was at Raine, making out as if she'd done nothing wrong. Didn't love thinking about Fauna at the moment, so he tried to change the subject.

"How's Department of Mysteries? Solve anything yet?"

            "You want me to test it out?"

He echoed Figaro's laugh, moving along the rack to consider some of the regularly priced records - one could only take so much of the atrocious. Virgil would have boldly told the other boy that, yes, why not test it out, if they'd had this conversation months and months ago. Before the advent of a certain dark haired wizard.

Now he only grinned and shook his head to himself while he listened to Fig justify his strange journalist ways. The image of a cake with his face on it was...that is, who knew a Hufflepuff could have such egoistic ambitions?

"It's interesting." Virgil replied with a shrug, unable to really say much about where he works. "The new department head is getting along well. We solve and unsolve." They certainly asked more questions than they would ever be able to answer in any one Unspeakable's lifetime. "You weren't interested in Ministry work, ever?"

He drew out what looked like another album of whale songs, turning it around to read the back with genuine interest. "It isn't all Solomon looking down his nose at everyone."

Virgil said how interesting his work was and then said absolutely nothing interesting about it. Should have known better considering half the people who worked in his Department were called Unspeakables. Figaro did know who Virgil was talking about, at least; one perk of working at the Daily Prophet was accidentally learning things like the name Yavin Morgenthau.

"I thought about being an Obliviator, but saw the N.E.W.T.s and was like, forget it."

The joke was choice but when Fig glanced at Virgil to see if it landed, wait, is that Virgil pulling another whale song record? Fig paused, but continued.

"Pun intended, statement factually true." 

He had, indeed, once Obliviated himself, and had partially filled out a form for an internship.[1] Nicholas Bevans actually had finished the form. Good follow through, Bevans.

"No regrets. I like working at the Prophet. Have a lot of freedom, no uniform, and - okay, sorry, so many questions: One. How does Reducto have such a deep whale song selection. And B, why are you buying them?"

1.	April 18, 2010, April 23 2010

           "...and was like, forget it."

He snorted softly, shaking his head at the awful pun. Virgil could not picture Figaro as an Obliviator. It suited Nick, somehow, possibly because their current Minister of Magic used to be an Obliviator and they both had that bulbous brand of smarminess. Perhaps they weren't meant to be subtle creatures. Unspeakables were stupidly subtle.

"If you think the whale songs are odd you should ask about their thunderstorm records." Virgil made a self-amused noise in his throat and glanced up from the album cover to consider Fig. "There's a whole niche community of people who listen to these things. I'm making a musical study of whale songs."

He handed over the first record he'd picked up, flipping it around so that the Humpback whales on the front were visible. "Male Humpback whales sing at one another and each time a song is repeated, it changes. They never go back to the old one. So this album here is from the 1970s." Virgil then indicated the one in his other hand. "This is current. If I play it, I'll be able to hear how their patterns have evolved over the years."

It was an esoteric subject, the sort of ridiculous thing he fixed on when he needed to not think about level nine or Cepheus or the past. And it was beautiful, of course. His countenance was fond as he handed over the second album.

"What we hear in them today is the composition of a song that has been composed and recomposed since the advent of their species." Virgil ran his hand through his hair, clearly lost in his own explanation. "And none of us know what it is they're really saying. How's that for a mystery?" he smiled at Figaro.

Oh wow, Virgil was explaining it. Figaro watched as it happened, his eloquent contemporary elucidating on the finer points of disco-era whale choirs. It honestly raised more concerns than answered his questions.

"Oh my god," he whispered, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "That is so boring, Virgil. Like, legitimately worrying. A musical study of whale songs? I'd say get a hobby, but I'm afraid of what you'd come up with."

Fig cracked a smile. In reality, the hyperbole was fun, but he was impressed. Figaro liked liking things. And he liked that other people liked things. He didn't think he'd like sitting quietly intently listening to the random, murmbling, clicking and keening of massive aquatic mammals, but eh. He'd once, back at school, spent hours methodically picking school glue from his hand one afternoon and reassembling it on his desk. To each their own.