"Who the $%!@ is Figaro Sellaphix!"

Barnabas Cuffe screamed as he charged out of his office. A post owl fled with haste, briefly tangling itself in the hair of a passerby before squeezing out of a high window.  From the balcony, Cuffe glowered down on the bullpen, wild-eyed and red-faced and sweaty. He had an abused memo crumbled in his hand:

Recipient: Barnabas Cuffe. Editor-in-Chief, The Daily Prophet Offices. London.
Sender: Solomon Carstairs. Head of DMLE, Ministry of Magic. London.


Barnabas,

We had one of your young fellows in today - a Mr Figaro Sellaphix? There must have been a scheduling issue. As you know, my personal assistant has been replaced by a series of uncoordinated trainees. I had assumed that I was meeting with Miss Cartwright tomorrow afternoon.

Sellaphix was kind enough to imply that you had arranged this. I have supplied him with the usual details. Do send Cartwright next time. She is less likely to be hexed.


Faithfully,

S. CARSTAIRS 

Below, all conversation had stopped, tea-drinkers frozen mid-sip. Only the printing press kept on churning. No one immediately responded. In the past, it was safer to keep mum when the boss went off. Better be a part of a silent crowd than step forward and bear the remaining brunt of the tirade, better than be a martyred messenger.

"WELL!?"

If he didn't get an answer - who in this miserable paper had impostered his way onto Level Two during this detailed and delicate investigation? When he'd arranged an exclusive interview with one of his best reporters? What tiny little man with a silly name had committed an act of such utter self-destruction? If he didn't have a body in his office in the next four seconds...!

It was one of Cuffe's screeching halts! Niobe winced as the boss's voice reverberated in the cavernous space. She crept slowly to stand outside her cubicle to try and see what was going on.

"Who's 'at?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"I think he said Sellaphix," responded Maggie Groust, with an equally quiet voice.

"He that mouthy twit lingering by your desk yesterday?"

"That's the one."

Knowing her movements would not go unnoticed by the boss, Niobe slipped through a knot of other staff towards the side door. Some of the little peewees used the back alley to smoke. One of the witches who flew deliveries was there, seeming to be guarding it.

"He out there?" she said in a voice that dared the delivery witch to defy her.  In response she stepped aside, giving Niobe access.

The creaking door was comically loud against the death-quiet of the newsroom. There he was.  A lad of eighteen with blonde hair and absurd plaid trousers was there, his harms crossed and all the blood gone from his face.

"You hear him in there? I'm doing you favor. You can walk, or I'll drag you," she offered. He had to face music.

Fig had returned to the Daily Prophet after his, um, interview a the Ministry of Magic. In borrowed trousers because Raine Almasy had damaged his other ones (among other things).  He'd come back, but hadn't the mustard to go in.

Not until he figured out how he was going to clear this up. But it turned out he didn't have as much time as he thought. Cuffe's shouts had no trouble being heard out in the alley.  Figaro Sellaphix about jumped out of his skin when the door creaked open and Thursby had come to get him like some executioner.

"I'm coming."

"After you." She gave him a sisterly shove as he crossed the threshold

His mind raced through the dialog he'd been writing in his head as he made his way through the newsroom in these outrageous trousers and a slightly funny walk. He could explain, sir. This had all been a massive misunderstanding, sir. He never said any of the things that he assumed they'd said. And even though he'd done nothing wrong, sir, he'd swear it'd never happen again and - .

Figaro didn't dare look up the balcony where he knew Barnabas Cuffe was scowling down. The newsroom bloomed into titters and whispered chatter as anyone who hadn't known who he was, well, they knew his name now. If this had been a walk of shame through the Great Hall back at Hogwarts, he'd have relished the glory and wave and carry on. But things weren't the same here.

He climbed the metal staircase and  approached Cuffe's office. Only now did he chance looking up.

Cuffe watched Thursby wind her way to the side door and come back with some infant, some delivery kid or assistant or hawker, or something. He never bothered to keep track of that rabble, they came and went so often. And one them, this one, was the mastermind little prick who was ruining his day and harpooning the lakehouse story!? Merlin help him, there was about to be a murder and Solomon Carstairs would never blame him.

The old publisher snapped his hand in the air impatiently to direct the little shit into the office, without a word.

But before he followed him in, he turned back to the newsroom.

"Show's over! Back to work! Something called a deadline!"

---

SLAM.

"Don't you $#!*ing sit down! On your bloody feet! I'm not your therapist! I'm the last bleeeeeeeeeding face you're going to see in this life time! Who the bloody hell is Figaro Sellaphix!?" He jabbed his finger in the boy's face.

"Shut up! Do you have any idea the shit you've just deposited in my hand?" He brandished the memo from Carstairs.

"Sellaphix was kind enough to imply I had arranged this?!" he said quoting the message in a dangerous sing-song tone. "I don't know your #&!ing name! What is in your vacuous skull that you thought you could speak MY NAME!?" Cuffe spat the words, then spun away from the kid around to the back of his desk.

Cuffe took a stance there like a rhino about to charge.

"I can't hear you!!"

There was a happy part of Figaro who was able to watch this play out from a distance.  Observe with fascination as the scene proceeded exactly how he'd always imagined a dressing down from Cuffe was like. He was spry for an old fellow. It took quite a lot of energy to scream like that, to sustain it. And look at himself - this wasn't even the worse thing that had happened to him today.

You can do it old chap, said Shoulder Figaro to himself.

Back down in Figaro's body, well, it was something of another story. It was impossible to predict what Cuffe wanted from him until the old man was suddenly stabbing him with a silent stare. Figaro swallowed the lump in his throat and started in talking as fast as he could before Cuffe set off again.

"I can explain, sir. It was all a mistake, sir. I have a few mates from school who're Aurors, I thought maybe we'd just have a chat. I had to get past the desk witch, sir, and she's absolutely terrible and your name might have come up and it wouldn't have been a thing, but Aurors aren't that clever and one of them, friend of mine, just stuck me in front of Carstairs and I swear I didn't imply anything. It's just, they kept inferring?"

Was that the word?

"And, sir, I know I'm nobody here, I know that, and I wouldn't've asked any questions, but well, I was in there with Solomon Carstairs and he's asking me to ask him questions and I'm not going to say no, am I? I didn't mean - "

Barnabas threw a paperweight at the boy's head to shut him up. He missed by a hair and the bauble banged against the glass window.

"You asked questions!? You are not a bleeeeeeding reporter, you insolent dullard! You don't get to say anything! You don't get to breeeeaaathe, do you understand! You're expendable, do you hear me! You and those - what the hell are you wearing - you're an expendable LEVITATION CHARM!"

It looked as if the boy was going to speak again, so Barnabas threw his back-up paperweight. Another miss. Blast! The boy was going to think he was merciful!

"Shut! Up! Ooooooh, you think you're a smooth talker, don't you? You think you're going to talk your way out of this one, don't you? Some sort of big shot? Fancy yourself going to demonstrate some unsolicited moxie and impress the boss. Work your way up and prove them all wrong?" he mocked in a snappish snivelling tone.

"Fat! Chance! Sit! Down! And! Hand! It! Over!"

The fear of Cuffe was now fully permeated, and Figaro slammed his arse down in the chair. He had the distinct feeling Cuffe had missed and that those were not warning shots.

Figaro had been chewed out before and knew how to look appropriately ashamed.  But holy hell, Cuffe hadn't even heard of him before this moment and knew exactly where to cut. Figaro winced as the old man's admonishments hit the mark.  Figaro was honestly as impressed as he was cowed.

Hand it over. Hand what over? Figaro was deer-in-the-headlights for a moment and felt another paperweight coming before it hit him.

"Oh!" He scrambled in the tight pockets and produced the dog-eared little notebook and handed it over.

Barnabas snatched up the stupid little notebook. This little blighter had a notebook. He'd have expected a napkin. He whipped through it looking for whatever notes Figaro Sellaphix had taken in his exclusive with Solomon Carstairs.

He stopped on a recent page and stared at it. Merlin, save them all. Was the boy literate? He raised his eyes very slowly, an owl-eyed furrowed brow stare as if he was seeing this strange little person for the first time.

"I can't read this," he whispered. Gently. Staring.

Figaro gulped. It was loud in the awkward silence. Um. What?

He mimicked Cuffe's silence and slowly, slowly, slowly, raised a hand to take his notebook back. Cuffe didn't take his eyes off him, never blinking. But Cuffe did hand over the notebook just as slowly.

Fig knew his handwriting was bad, but not that bad. He cleared his throat.

"Carstairs said that, um, the mist causes loss of, um, body control."

Cuffe didn't interrupt so he kept reading.

"And memory loss. Identity loss. He said that it's causing intrusive thoughts. And is messing with normal magic."

That was it. He handed it back to Cuffe who was, still, just staring at him. Cuffe didn't take the notebook, so he set it down on the very edge of the desk.

"How many people have these symptoms?" Cuffe asked in the same gentle tone.

"I don't know."

"The squib. Reid. What's her status? Does she have those symptoms?" His voice regained a sliver of edge.

"I don't know."

"Where is the mist now? Is it moving?"

"I don't -"

Figaro didn't finish his response before Cuffe was on his feet screaming.

"Then what's the bloody point of you!? Out! Get out!"

Figaro leapt up from the chair, ducking as he scrambled to the door. He could hear Cuffe continuing to rant behind him, bellowing for someone to get Temperance Cartwright and an owl. 

His heart was racing as he quickly lit down the stairs. Was it really over? A few of the copy editors gently clapped for him as he passed. He slowed his trot and made a somewhat confused bow. Niobe Thursby was leaning on one of the desks.

       "You survived. Bravo."

Figaro shrugged as if it was no big deal, but he was still shaking.

"All in a days's work. I am I fired?"

       "Did he fire you?"

"He didn't say."

       "Then sorry. You're not fired. And now he knows your name. No no, stop grinning. That's not a good thing."


Fin.