“I’ve put you next to Barney, Gen, I thought it could be like old times!”

Well wasn’t she lucky? Queen G pondered over just how unlucky she actually was while winding her way through the tables and crowds to table number 1. Now, in no way was Genny one of the richest people in the room, heck she didn’t even come close. But table 1 was reserved for the gala attendees that they wanted to impress. Who wouldn’t put the two leaders of the British Wizarding Press at the top of that list? It happened regularly, an inconvenience of now being an ‘ally’ to her old boss.

The room was grand and it reminded Genny of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, stone floors and walls, glistening candles floating in the air above and around them. Upon the stage a piano was playing itself, smooth and unimposing. The annual benefit gala for Hector Harrison's Unfortunate Urchin Grant Foundation was about to start rather beautifully.

It took at least ten minutes to navigate the various guests, her usual glistening smile plastered on her face, the winking, the chatting, the schmoozing. Genny’s face may not have been on the front cover of Witch Weekly but every damned person in the country could no doubt pick her out in a crowd, such was notoriety and fame.

“Barney!” There he was, stood near their table, cocksure and loving life. Gen had long since gotten over the urge to hex him. Even if it made her feel better momentarily, such actions would benefit no one. “What a wonderful surprise!” Her trademark grin was in full force as she stepped up to him, arms out to take his upper arms and plant a kiss on each cheek.

To their right, a camera snapped into action, lights flashing in the direction of the editors.

"My dear!" Barnabas Cuffe reflected Genevieve García-Gamp's warmth.

"You look disarming, as always. An incorruptible vision. We are all of us put to shame," the old wizard said, ever eloquent.  He placed a hand platonically high up on her back and quartered out to cameras.

"Genevieve García-Gamp, gentles - editor of Witch Weekly. Once protege, now doing quite well, so say we all, hm?" She needed no introduction, he knew that, but this was a favorite tactic of his to emphasize his own stature. Remind everyone who came before whom.

"Don't let her out of your sight," he added with a sly wink. "Or you'll find yourself on one of her lists." He laughed. "Ah ha ah ha!"

Of course, Cuffe threw himself into the public compliments, he’d probably been a two-faced weasel since he could speak. Barnabas Cuffe, from her reckoning, would hug you for the cameras while choosing the best place to have you buried if you didn’t play along. Perhaps somewhat exaggerated, but Genny had been on the receiving end of the old wizard’s bark.

“You’ve managed to avoid my lists, Barney,” It was as if he believed Witch Weekly was pointless gossip and lists of handsome men. Gen laughed along with him. “Despite your titillating history.” Dark eyebrows rose as she gave her former boss a smile. “Would it be terribly inappropriate for our magazine to do a special about yourself, Barney? I know a lot of my readers just gnawing at the bit to see what’s behind that charming smile.”

"I'm as dull as doorknob," Cuffe said putting his hands in his pockets. "It's a fact well-known."

That Cuffe was able to boast of his dullness - a superlative achievement for a braggart. He hadn't actually rebuffed her threat, because that never worked. She would publish exactly as she pleased, because he published exactly as he pleased. Very much a trait to her credit.

The photographers moved on, and a server with hors d'oeuvres swam by with some fancy cheese.  Why, Barnabas Cuffe, he loved cheese! He took one, had a sniff, and popped it in his mouth. "Excellent," he remarked.

"Want a drink, Genevieve? Too early for champagne but the perfect hour for chardonnay."

Little really was known about Cuffe so his statement may as well have been true. When one could control what is published for the public, one could remain as anonymous as one wished. Gen, on the other hand, had been forced to tackle her own lack of anonymity head on. If she wrote about herself, others wouldn’t have a chance because there’d be nothing left to tell. It was, of course, a great source of embarrassment for her 12 year old son, but at least he had the means to live comfortably aside from the gross embarrassment of a mother and shame of a father.

Genevieve. Not Gonzalez or Gwendolyn or anything else randomly beginning with G. That hadn’t happened for years.

Now, what exactly possessed Cuffe to believe that it could ever be too early for champagne was unknown. Genny chose not to question such an oddity, instead smiling as the photographers left them alone in relative privacy.

“Are you offering to buy me a free drink, Barnabas?” The witch winked and moved to link arms with the older man. It had originally maddened her when Cuffe had publically stated how he’d helped her, how they’d parted way amicably and any other spin he’d put on her walk out of the Daily Prophet. At the time, Gen had been sorely tempted to deny such stories. But with time she’d realised just how helpful such a publically obvious alliance could become, even if she still wanted to hex him into the beyond for years of rudeness. “How very generous of you.”

Linked in arm, they strolled between the tables to the gold-gilt bar. Both Cuffe and Garcia-Gamp had someone to nod, wink, or wave to, both of them very well known in these charity gala circles.

"Nothing is free, Madam," he said with a smile.

It wasn't long before they both had a glass of white wine in their hands.

"So." He widened his eyes wildly stretched his dark eyebrows into a dramatic arch.

"What do you have brewing over there at the Weekly?"

Between vicious exposes, comprehensive bachelor auctions, and the odd bit of sharp niche reporting, the Witch Weekly was always a surprise. He'd readily admit his reasons for asking were threefold: he adored shoptalk, bragging, and angling for an advantage.

He kept her gaze as he lifted his glass to his lips.

It was never going to take long for the couple to move onto shoptalk. One couldn’t work their way into their positions without a serious passion for their job. Gen felt that she practically lived her job. There truly was no line between work and the personal as she’d blurred those lines years ago. A detachment from work certainly wasn’t possible when she lived above your office and almost everyone that she came across recognised her.

Gen used her newly acquired glass of wine as a momentary stall while she considered what she might actually tell Cuffe. It had to be enough to get him interested, not enough to give anything away. A tricky tightrope to balance upon.

“You mean my anthill?” Gen raised an eyebrow at her former employer. “Oh, I don’t know, Barney. We just wait for something ridiculous to happen and dive on it like vultures.” Her tone was plain with a hint of sarcasm. “We do have an excellent pumpkin pie recipe coming out next week but that’s need to know.” She tapped her nose with her finger. “Something about cinnamon and pepper. Can hardly have that getting out before we publish.”

Cuff slide a hand in his pocket and rocked on his heels, amused.  Sneaky minx was enjoying herself, and well she should.

"Always keeping us guessing," he said merrily. "Certainly a draw for your audience. I've seen your numbers, and they're deliciously enigmatic. There must be a multitude of covert Witch Weekly readers, secretly subscribed, guiltily eating you up! I think that's a cracking good endorsement, wouldn't you say? Irresistible even to those who pride themselves on being too clever for you. Honestly, I don't know how you do it."

The Witch Weekly had, truthfully, been a puzzle Cuffe had always had a hard time solving. It was, in his opinion, largely comprised of mostly useless (if not entertaining) gossip and yet, its sales were steady and lately improving. If he could distill what ingredient she'd brewed up, it would be all the better for the Daily Prophet.

Words were spilling from Cuffe’s mouth. Words that were praising and admiring. He wasn’t beating down her publication with his usual big fat ‘I’m more important than you’ stick. Had it finally clicked? Did the man finally realise that Genny was in fact running a very profitable and popular magazine despite her lack of NEWTs and the people skills he’d been quite convinced that she lacked? Or was this all for the people perhaps within earshot?

It had always been painfully difficult to tell. She’d nicknamed the man Janus years ago and the moniker still fit beautifully.

Deciding that taking it at face value was the easiest thing to do tonight, Gen smiled warmly. “Everyone gossips. We’ve got an innate desire to know that someone else’s life, no matter how seemingly picture perfect, is chaos.” She took a quick sip of wine before dark eyes shot back up to the Daily Prophet editor. “You write what people have to read. We write what they want to read, guilty pleasure or not.”

Lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “You have to drink water to stay alive. You want to drink wine.” She raised her eyebrows and clinked glasses with him.

"Cheers!" he had to agree.

"Mr. Cuffe, psst."

A wizard who looked too young to have mutton chops that size was tapping his shoulder.

"Mr. Cuffe, it's nearly time."

At the same time, the lights dimmed for a moment. The event was about to start.

"Ah, yes! This is me, dear. Do excuse me. I won't be a moment."

---

"It is now my honor and thrill to introduce a wizard whose voice has influenced and reflected the ebb and flow of public opinion for decades. Barnabas Cuffe began his career in journalism in 1964 as a commentator on Wizarding Wireless Network's evening news programme The Eye. In 1973, as the political intrigue editor at the Daily Prophet continued to publish the news bravely despite threats to his personal safety. Mr. Cuffe took over as Editor-in-Chief in 1985, captaining the Daily Prophet through rough waters," ... and so on and so forth. Mention was made of his personal philanthropy, his passion for such-and-such, his esteem for the esteemable, et cetera.

"... Mr. Barnabas Cuffe!

Applause, applause! Barnabas emerged from the wings with a wave and a short bow. He took his place behind the podium and used his wand to amplify his voice.

"Thank you, thank you, what a kind and inflated introduction. I couldn't have written it better myself."

Titter, titter.

"I have certainly gained a reputation in my many years and I come to you as I come to so many of you so often: asking for your gold. And you're here tonight - at this gala benefitting the Hector Harrison's Unfortunate Urchin Grant Foundation - because you have a great deal of it! That, or your celebrity is bait for the former class of guest."

Barnabas winked at Genevieve across the room.

"Now, when I come badgering on behalf of the Daily Prophet I come to convince you for reason of good public relations and a civic opportunity. Tonight my game is shame: by Merlin's beard, they're urchins! Have a heart!"

Scandalized titters.  Cuffe himself cackled.

"In all seriousness, the late Hector Harrison said it best. 'Magic is a gift that is not freely given. It is lost and must be found. It must be sown and tended and shared.'"

And so on for another quarter of an hour or so. Cuffe spun his web of words in service of the event, in the end begging deep pockets so that all magical youth had a chance at a future.

Applause, applause, and dinner was served.

---

After a many dozen hands were shook, Cuffe arrived breathless back at the only companion he found bearable for the evening. "Rescue me," he whispered. "I beseech you!"

The chosen speaker for the evening, the man unrivalled with words bathed the crowd in a plethora of reasons for why they should donate their much-appreciated galleons that evening. Genny, without many galleons spare to donate to the urchins, donated her attention to the glass of wine that would need refilling in mere moments. As expected, she smiled and waved a hand when Barney looked at her, as if modest from the attention at being recognised as a celebrity.

As the speech went on, Genny successfully managed to finish another glass of wine and was refilling her third when Cuffe fought his way back to the table for dinner.

“That’s a lot of beseeching, tonight, Barney. I almost feel like I need to donate to those poor grubby urchins.” A refilled wine glass was passed his way just as a plate of food appeared before them.

Queen G burst out laughing at the venue’s choice of pun. She’d never eaten Sea urchin before.

"Your money's no good here," Barnabas said, happy to have a glass in his hand again. "These are tossers of means, Gamp.  Let's leave them to foot the bill as we, we, you and I, are tossers of substance and are here to imbibe."

      "Cuffe, you old dog!'

A tall wizard with an even taller top hat brushed by them both, and shouted a greeting having apparently not overheard.

"Part with your gold, Gimble!" Cuffe called after him. Claudio Q. Gimble, heir to an American haberdashery fortune. Never worked a day in his life, at least nothing more strenuous than shooting billiards.

Cuffe put a hand to his mouth in a clandestine pantomime. "Tosser."

"Speaking of urchins... how's yours?" 

Genevieve didn’t know what the word ‘imbibe’ meant, and chose not to ask. Instead, she happened to carry out exactly the word’s meaning with another sip of her wine. The gala would be done quicker the more she drank and thus she would sooner be out for the real fun to start. No one really enjoyed these galas, they simply pretended to because it was expected. Gen just saw it as a brilliant chance to network. An Editor was useless if they couldn’t network. Cuffe had taught her that much, at least.

“Better dressed than an urchin.” Still, Dante was almost a teenager and Gen only seemed to groan every morning during the summer holidays. Once he’d finally dragged himself out of bed, his clothing choices had been painful for his fashion conscious and publically well-known mother to see. Not to mention school uniform shopping in August! “He’ll look like an urchin come December. Do you know how expensive school robes are? Bloody kid won’t stop growing.”

Gen wasn’t a fan of talking about her son. Her life had been for public consumption since Leo had been arrested after the war and she’d only learned that embracing such was her only way to cope. Dante didn’t deserve to deal with the mistake his mother had made. He needed privacy because enough people at Hogwarts were probably extremely cruel.

“Tell me, Barney, have you hired any paper bags full of refuse and sequins?”

Oh, she was going to punish him for attempting to talk about her family! He should have known and been ready for the retaliation. He wrinkled his face into a scowl meant not for Genevieve, but the writer who'd been the object of the referenced quotation.

"Oh, piss, you saw that? I should have guessed you might. A colorful bit of prose meant for internal consumption only, but I can't blame it for being passed around like a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, can I? I hope you all found it entertaining."

Barnabas adjusted his cufflinks. He was very deft now at delineating his modes of communication, parceling them out with precision, but nothing was ever secret. His letter to a leaky witch was bound to well, leak. But he'd control the narrative soon enough.

"What were you thinking?" he asked a little sadly. He hoped she knew he meant keeping that nasty blighter in her employ.  Cuffe certainly had his own hounds on staff, his background scroungers, his shifty network, his rabblerousers, but that was hardly public knowledge and he kept them well shuttered.

“Don’t get too excited, you old codger. Stick your tongue back in.” Gen rolled her eyes. “I’m the only one that saw it other than Snigger.” She took a sip of wine and sat back in the seat. There was no way she’d be eating the sea urchin starter that appeared to be staring up at her from the plate. “No one worships you at Witch Weekly.” Even if most had respect for him considering how long he’d been doing his job and how good he appeared at it.

"What were you thinking?" That could have been in reference to a multitude of sins that the magazine editor had committed in her lifetime. As it were, she was quite certain he was talking about the very public nightmare between Balfour Spectre, Sandy Misslethorpe and now, Lil Snigger.

“That she has an enormous fan base.” Queen G gave a shrug, all too aware of the gravity of the situation with Koko and the article. A week or so down the line, most people would have forgotten but it made it no easier in the present. “I’m not going to hide and ignore the fact that that article never should have gone to print. If someone were to write those things about Dante…” Gen was all too aware that her current confidante was in fact the King of the Media, but she rarely censored what she really thought. Honesty was the best policy, wasn’t it?

“It’s being dealt with.”