"GONZALEZ!"


The troll screamed from his cave and Gonzalez slowly closed her eyes, taking a moment to count from 1 to 10. It was extremely unwise to enter the Cuffe’s cave when already incensed but how the hell was it possible not to become incensed when your boss continued to get your name wrong after 13 years of service?

6…7…




...10

From her seat at her desk in the middle of the bullpen, Genevieve García-Gamp opened her eyes and rose from her chair. People were staring; of course, they were. There was only one person that could possibly be Gonzalez. There were a mixture of expressions ranging from concern to amusement. Most simply looked relieved that their own names hadn’t been called by an angry summons.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Barnabas Cuffe was enraged. She’d stepped out of line yet again and the man seemed to enjoy a good shout. Perhaps he got off on it. She’d mentioned as much in her book published six months ago now.

Most days Genny would witness a new staff member being hauled into the office in fear. They’d have run at the call of their name (or something similar), terrified for their job.
Genny had spent over a decade at the Daily Prophet and was fully aware of the unpleasant slap on the wrist before she’d be sent out once he’d gotten his little kick. Despite such, she was clearly in no rush to be threatened and barked at.

Leaving the letter, she’d been partway through penning on her desk, Genny navigated the bullpen for their editor’s office.

“No one called Gonzalez works here.” the witch’s tone was pointed, defiant. She stepped through the open door, arms crossed over her stomach.

Barnabas had on his desk a stack of long thin parchments, drafts of articles that had been marked up by the copy editors. One of them was causing him great pain. So he waved it in the face of his least favorite reporter.

"Where does your intrinsic repulsion to competency come from? Who's pissed in your tea leaves that would compel you to shove me towards an early grave? BLAST IT, GAMP! Do you know how long it took Thursby to get this guy?"

He didn't wait for a response.

"Then why is his name in your report!? You're supposed to be on Covent Garden!" He screamed, his usually velvety tenor an ear-splitting tinny shriek. He threw Garcia-Gamp's draft at her.

Niobe Thursby was his lead on Shacklebolt's removing the Dementors from Azkaban. There was a ferryman at Charon's Point[1]who was finally agreeing to speak on the record, but when Thursby had gone to collect, he had clammed up again.

"Whyyyyyyyyy?!" He swept his arms wide in a dramatic, pained pleading.

1.	The ferry landing from Northumberland to Azkaban: Azkaban Prison

Tea leaves, piss, incompetency, Thursby.

Cuffe liked Thursby, she was given good assignments. Every other person in the Daily Prophet was given better assignments than Gen and now that she’d tried to get in on the good stuff, she was being screamed at by the angry old man with a power complex.

The challenge didn’t come in trying to avoid emotion, it came in resisting the urge to grimace as his shrill voice pierced her ear drums. He should have been born a harpy.

A hand shot out to snatch up the parchment being thrown at her as his arms were thrown in the air. The man thought he was a king, screw the Minister for Magic!

Gen slammed the door behind her and stepped heeled foot further into the office.

“The Convent Garden assignment is shit!” She threw back; the counting had done nothing to keep her calm. “Who actually gives a skrewt’s arse if there’s a wizard performing sad little tricks in muggle London? That crap needs to go in the Quibbler or put a rookie on it!”

Barnabas's face went slack, his stare deadly quiet.

"It is shit. And I have put a rookie on it," he whispered.

He left a very long pause, his expression wearily blank. Then suddenly, Cuffe slammed the side of his fist against the wall. A framed edition from 1990 trembled.

"You're the &$#'ing rookie!" he shouted, his face going red.

Oh, sure, Garcia-Gamp had been at the Prophet for ten-something years. She'd worked her way up, or whatever, but had never caught Cuffe's fancy. People didn't like her. He was sure that she was a lovely person, but that didn't mean he cared. If people wouldn't talk to a reporter than the reporter was shit.

"Go on. Explain yourself. I know you've got some excuse you're dying to lay steaming on my carpet. Maybe you already have? Hmm? If I read your book, will I be illuminated by your penetrating prose? Is there a chapter there on failure? Are there two, maybe?"

He sat on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms and glared. A brief thought that he might have overreacted sparked up, but was immediately fizzled out. No. There was a reason things were done a certain way. His way. And Gwendolyn here seemed averted to it.

For the briefest of moments, Genny believed he may have understood, may have considered his response an overreaction and actually considered giving her a proper assignment.

Then his fist slammed the wall and, despite herself, the witch jumped and the verbal tirade continued.

And goodness did Cuffe know where to put the knife.

The letter on her desk was now swimming in her back of her mind. Perhaps she needed to rewrite her response.

“No excuses.” Genny shook her head, arms folded tightly, draft still clutched in her right hand. “Convent Garden was shit. You’re giving me shit because you’re clearly ignorant.” Perhaps she’d just taken it a step too far. The man might burst a blood vessel if she continued. “Perhaps you’d like to write about Convent Garden, Sir?” Whatever the hell she was doing, it was fuelled by the letter sat on her desk. Genny had always stood and taken the verbal abuse before. 13 years of it. No more.

What was happening. Since when did Gamp have a tongue in her head? 

He laid his fingers on his chest, in a 'who me?' gesture. He tilted his head to the side and his face became a wash of the most cloying concern, far too exaggerated to be anything but the prelude to more screaming.

"I never thought of that," he whimpered. "All these years, I should have been asking a N.E.W.T.-less gossip her opinion. My thirty years of editorial acclaim, what was I thinking? I should be the one filling the gaps between adverts. How. Silly.  Of me."

He snatched up the other drafts on his desk and flung them at her. They fluttered around haphazardly, as paper does.

"You don't choose your assignments! You go where you're told! That's how this works! If you don't like it, you can eat my owl!"

This was the stage of the play where Barnabas would have considered his duty done, for whoever he was barging on to have gotten the picture, the Fear of Cuffe successfully reinforced. He'd banish them, they'd shape up, they'd repeat as needed.

He stared at her. Well?

The wizard was a bully. Anyone watching would have wondered how in Godric’s Garters he’d managed to run the paper for so long and retain so many staff. Seeing this exchange would be enough to put anyone off. But despite his attitude, the Daily Prophet continued to be hugely successful and the two-headed snake currently hurling abuse from his desk had certainly done something right. Wonders would never cease!

But Genny had now had one tirade too many and working at the Daily Prophet was suddenly no longer worth it.

The papers fluttered to the floor around her feet as she felt her blood start to boil.

“Having N.E.W.T.s has clearly turned you into a magnificent person! So, considerate and understanding!” Sarcasm dripped through her voice. Her arms unfolded and she spoke louder, angrier. The closed door behind her had never been sufficient at muffling noise and Cuffe clearly had never wished to set a charm to do as such. How else could he make an example of staff? “You can stick your Convent Garden and you can stick your job you supercilious, condescending, judgemental tyrant.” The papers clutched in her hand were shoved towards his chest. “13 years and you can’t remember my @!#~ing name!”

Barnabas's eyes grew wide, anger mixed with surprise. She wasn't actually trying to quit was she? Who would spend ten years at the Daily Prophet only to walk out? He couldn't be down a reporter right now. She wasn't terrible or anything, just a bit clumsy with the public.

"Alright there, Genny dear, I see you're angry. There's no need for that kind of talk. You had to have expected this," he said suddenly much more level. 

He'd been called two-faced before, for his ability to flip a switch, and well, it was an apt characterization. But the god Janus also had two faces and he had a month named for him, didn't he?

"You sit. I'll get you a cup of tea and you can gather your wits. Clive! Cuppa for Gamp!"

He smiled at her, but his eye was twitching.

It was astonishing; the complete flip of the wizard who had, a moment ago, slammed his fist into the wall and screeched at her like a bitchy teenage girl who’d had her eyeliner stolen. He’d practically been blowing steam out of his ears in ire at her undermining his instructions!
Now? He was calling for her by her actual name (something she’d quite believed he didn’t actually know), and hollering for a drink to be brought in for her whilst offering her a seat.

A surprised laugh nearly escaped as she watched the colour of his cheeks change and his eyes flood with panic. How often had someone threatened to quit midway through a Barnabas Cuffe terrorising tirade? He’d clearly always expected the poor sod to stand to attention listening to the diatribe and run out sobbing in fear for their job. The old harpy troll mix breed didn’t know what to do with himself now!

“Expected this?” Gen repeated, ignoring his instruction to sit. “You’re absolutely right! I completely expected this. You’ve got where you are by stamping other people’s faces into the mud.” Gen knew she’d never get where he was, people like him were always there to stop people like her. “The great Barnabas Cuffe is a nasty bully and N.E.W.T-less Gonzalez is going to have so much to write about at Witch Weekly.”

“CLIVE!” The witch yelled, “You’ll need some draught of peace for the boss! He looks like he’s about to keel over!” eyes flashed back to Cuffe.

Poor, sweet Clive. He was only doing his best. But when the drink order kept changing, he just had to set the tray down on the table in the hall until the shouting from inside the office stopped. And for a second, it did. Clive snuck a peek through the office window.

Barnabas Cuffe had turned from red to green.

"Witch Weekly," he hissed. Gamp had a job offer at Witch Weekly? First of all, how dare she. Second of all, why even would she. It was a rag. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and suddenly barked in laughter.

"Ah ha ha ha! Ah ha ah ha! Oh, jolly day! What mirth! Ah ha ah ha! Our little princess has a quill now, hasn't she! Ah ha ha ha! Better queen of an ant hill than to serve on a mountain? They can have you! AH HA HA HA!"

His laughter had a very short journey to becoming frantic shouts. This was not the time to be losing experienced reporters. He needed bodies in the field! Even, he waved his hands at her, Garcia-Gamps! Well, he wasn't going to beg.

"Get out! Out! You're fired! Redundant! Terminated! Sacked! Witch %*!# Weekly my moonlit arse!" 



In the back of his mind, he was already spinning it. Who? Oh, yes. It was a bit messy, but we've parted ways. Mutually. Our very best of luck to her. We hope that she'll thrive under the lower standards at the Weekly. He wasn't going to regret this day, was he?

“Fired?!” Gen retorted, staring at the wizard in disbelief. “You can’t fire someone who’s just quit!” Was his head stuck too far up his own arse to comprehend such a fact? Barnabas Cuffe couldn’t fire her when she’d already stated her own resignation. Surely ‘stick your job’ had been clearly understandable. He’d certainly jumped to attention at the words, swooping down like a vulture on the carcass of his latest victim.

Months ago, this would have been the witch’s worst nightmare. Throwing herself at the mercy of her boss would have been unthinkable. She’d have stood, taken the abuse, apologised and left with her tail between her legs. But she had a job where there was the chance of not being verbally abused on a regular basis. Who wouldn’t have jumped at such an opportunity even if it meant writing for a gossip magazine rather than a well esteemed newspaper? Gen now felt decidedly daft that she’d been about to reject the offer, choosing to remain instead at the highly-regarded paper run by a shrieking tyrant with thinning silver hair and the change of bursting a blood vessel at least 5 times a day.

“Better to be the Queen of an anthill than the excrement under the mountain troll’s boot.” He’d laughed at her, the snobbery of the newspaper editor sneering down his nose at the best-selling weekly in the country. He’d only be laughing in the short term. Gen would make sure of it.

“No one fires a Queen, Barney!” Her hand took the door handle. “My anthill’s going to get @!#+ing big!” It was a promise.