1530 hours

Jebediah Layton was casually slicing an apple as he read a muggle paper at the large window seat of the east London coffee shop[1] not far from his modest flat. It was drizzling outside but traffic one the road outside was minimal. The city appeared at peace with its grey weather. One of the baristas stopped by his table to deposit a cup of their daily brew: a long black with a touch of nutty aroma. He smiled at her, pulling a slice of apple off the knife with his teeth.

When Layton returned his attention to both the paper and the view from the window, he spotted a familiar figure cutting across - just about to enter the cafe. It was the Sellaphix boy.

Figaro Sellaphix. Served the Tetrawizard Tournament challenge alongside Raine Almasy. Daily Prophet underdog. Eager to find his place and glory, lacking in finesse. Only knew Layton as a wizarding neighbour, by the name of Mr. Leslie. Minimal risk of exposing him to the law or anyone else. Might be worth picking at to see if he knew what was happening in the lives of his peers.

The bell at the door did a little dance as it opened, and he nudged out the stool next to him as Figaro entered. "Slow news day?" he asked casually - they recognised each other from small talk and greetings in the flat building corridor.

1.	based on a shop called Black Box in Hackney Wick!

[1]

"For me."

Figaro alit on the stool offered by Mr. Leslie, his back to the table. In a moment, he'd hop up order his coffee.

"I go back in at ten." 

Figaro's schedule at the Daily Prophet was a potion brewed of whim and sadism, orchestrated by some kind of arcane mechanical clock whose inner workings were made of springs and bone.  He deserved much more credit than he was given for showing up to all his shifts at the right time, most of the time. He'd been in the job a few months now and had begun to fall into an easy rhythm in and out of the newsroom, his flat, cards with the witches, and coffee adjacent to Mr. Leslie.

Right, Mr. Leslie. If questioned by law enforcement, Fig would have some difficulty remembering when he'd first met Mr. Leslie. They were both apparently conversational sorts, comfortable with strangers, and so had become familiar.

"Usual, mate?" asked the barista from the counter. Figaro nodded yes and turned in the stool.

"What are the muggles up to?" He nodded towards the static muggle newspaper.

1.	It's the Blackwood Cafe

             "What are the muggles up to?"

Layton glanced down at the page he had open, plastered through with arts and culture articles and comic strips. He pinched the left side of the paper between his fingers, turning over to the front so that the headlines were visible to his coffee drinking partner. "Famous muggle bloke[1] passed away. Something to do with computers."

Other things in the magicless world was also happening - Greece in its financial crisis, American rivers welcoming back their salmon, the Dasara Hindu festival in India. Nothing that would grab the attention of the unimaginative.

He sliced into his apple again, offering a piece to Figaro.

"More cheerful news in our world?" Layton asked casually. "Slow news is good news, in my experience." And he had a lot of experience when it came to the news, little did his new friend know. "Probably not great for someone in your position though. Bit of trouble sells the papers these days doesn't it?"

1.	Steve Jobs passed away, 5th Oct 2011

Fig accepted the piece of apple, and smiled.

"Yeah yeah, that's what they say."

Since starting at the paper, Figaro had become well learned in how people saw the business from the outside, and how the business thought of itself from within. He didn't care either way. It was a fun job and newspapers were important. Some of his co-workers took their jobs too seriously, in his estimation; and there had been a bloke or two he'd met in the pub who decided to have it out with him about the whole of the journalism industry.

"But no, trouble's way more fun. Much rather work a late shift during some disaster than just sit there and wait for the press to be done. Cuffe's loads more hilarious when he's ghoulish about some catastrophe instead of him getting bored and polishing his guillotine."

The barista delivered Fig's coffee: a large Americano with one sugar, in a paper cup with a lid - he was often on the move.

Their love for the sensationalism of disaster was the media's single redeeming point: you could count on it like clockwork, ready to steer the minds and opinions of the general public. Ira had played the papers like a child's piano forte - she would have appreciated recent news to do with the deaths of squibs and terrorising mists.

"Can't say I relate." Layton remarked out loud and finishing off his apple with a final two slices, which he ate in a single bite. "Stability's good for business, as far as I'm concerned."

He had never really clarified his 'business' to Figaro, except to imply that it often involved have to be away from home. His cover story amongst both muggle and wizarding folk was that he supplied decor advice to boutique hotels.

"But I bet the sweet shops are making a killing, huh?" he dipped his paper napkin into a glass of water and wiped off his knife. "Chocolates flying off the shelves, must be." Layton closed and pocketed it before reaching for his coffee. "You run into any Dementors yourself?"

'Stability's good for business'? Figaro shook his head, amused at the older wizard's thoroughly normal existence. The same things two days in a row was almost enough to inspire Figaro to provoke a street fight (which he'd surely lose) just for the change of pace. Luckily, he was out of Hogwarts and worked for the Daily Prophet.

He kept his manners though - his mother had taught her boys well to be polite (if not necessarily compliant) to their elders. Figaro assumed Mr. Leslie was older than he looked. He had a beard, and he thought he remembered Mr. Leslie mention he'd taken up knitting. Sweet dull man.

Dementors? The word ran a chill down his back.

"Nah." He never had. He sipped his coffee. It was too hot.

"They were at Hogwarts last year, but I didn't get to see," he said, checking that no one was watching and snuck his wand out, and cast a little chilling spell.

Figaro almost sounded disappointed about not having an encounter with the soul-sucking monsters. So he thought he'd boast a bit.

"I mean, when I was interviewing Solomon Carstairs," name drrrrrop, "and I got the impression Ministry's more interested in that creepy mist than the Dementors that came along with it."[1] He looked over at Mr. Leslie to see if he was impressed.

"You know what I'm talking about. That thing in Keswick, where all those squibs were murdered?"[2]

1.	Aug 10 - Okay Spill
2.	Aug 5 House of Horrors

Nothing new to hear of the dementors from this one, then. Layton had wondered what was being done with them now that Musgrave managed to get himself locked up at St.Mungo's. He had always been in support of killing both Musgrave and his mutt of a niece but Ira imagined the world to be more interesting with those two in it. She wasn't wrong.

             "I mean, when I was interviewing Solomon Carstairs..."

Layton drank his coffee, glancing over to watch Figaro's expectant countenance as the young man theorised about the intentions of the DMLE. That seemed far fetched. Carstairs, talking to this kid?

"Yeah, I read about that. You've been covering the mist?" he had stayed far from becoming involved in the mysterious phenomenon, only noting that the Dementors were drawn to it. "What makes you think Carstairs is more interested in that? Looks like a job for level four, if you ask me."

That was, anyway, what he'd heard other wizards say. Layton simply echoed sentiments that would fit the pigeonhole into which Figaro might have stuffed Mr.Leslie. "I'm more interested in what they're doing with that bloke in St.Mungo's, the one who's supposed to be in Azkaban. Can't be up to any good, that."

"You've been covering the mist?"

Figaro tsk'd a puff of air, despite himself.

"I've been covering my arse, mate." It had been almost a month since his daring caper. Only thing that had changed at work was more of the other staff knew who he was now, and well, Figaro was likable, so it wasn't a terrible thing. But he had the sense to know to lay low.

He slid his elbow out and leaned deeply on the table, nowhere to be, content to shoot the breeze.

"Honestly, just a gut thing. I half think Carstairs was just messing with me, or the Prophet."

"I'm more interested in what they're doing with that bloke in St.Mungo's, the one who's supposed to be in Azkaban."

"Hm?"

His first thought was that his mum was in St. Mungo's. And that his dad was in Azkaban. And wasn't that a lovely thought to push way deep down inside. Soon as that was done with... who now?

"The MLE has someone at Mungo's? Dunno who you mean, unless Ira Almasy is somehow not dead. Or Cinead Tawse's been in a padded room this whole time. Whoever you're talking about, doesn't sound like he has dragonpox... Bollocks, I'd ask someone for you, but my mates on Level Two probably have a hex or two ready for me from last time."

Figaro tried to imagine popping by at Fauna or Raine's with more questions he had no business asking. 

              "I've been covering my arse, mate."

Were all young wizards this mouthy and annoying? He was starting to miss Johann Storm's impertinent little quips. Out loud, Layton only laughed at his young neighbour's frank perspective - nothing disingenuous about this bloke, no, hasn't the first idea about how to keep a secret. Not that he had a reason not to have a loose tongue around harmless Mr. Leslie.

"It's Musgrave, innit?" he raised his eyebrows expressively. "But you don't have to trouble yourself, was just saying it's a shame they haven't locked him up where he belongs, that's all. Guess I can't complain s'long as he's off the streets."

Dead end there. Layton was very curious about what they might be doing at St.Mungo's with Ira's Dementor Traffic Controller. Healing him? Did he need healing? The only thing that ever harmed Lawrence Musgrave was an idle hand and more hubris than an imbecile like him could justify.

These mates on level two sounded a more promising avenue.

"What'd you do to make 'em want to hex you?" he affected surprise, as if though he couldn't possibly imagine anybody wanting to hex Figaro. "Always figured that lot on level two kept a level head."

"A level head? You're joking."

He shook his head.

"I'm jealous, honestly, never having had a run-in with Aurors that you'd think there was a single stable individual in the lot." Figaro was exaggerating, but they were all so arrogant. How they'd treated his family and that.  Poor, boring, naive Mr. Leslie. Must be nice.

Figaro scratched the back of his head as he briefly decided if he wanted to tell this story again. It didn't exactly paint him in the most flattering light, but it was hilarious and was an example to support his point that Aurors were, as a rule, crazy. He was still a bit cross with Raine about the whole thing.

"Nah, there's this witch I know who's training to be an Auror. She was in a twist about me talking my way into that interview with Carstairs, and I said something about her family and she flipped."  He mimed the flick of a wand to cast a hex.

"Pshh, fire hex right in the nads. Psychotic, right? Blimey. She's got law trouble in her family - who hasn't - and didn't appreciate me pointing that out. I mean, when my mum heard I was on Level Two? She about tore my ear off. Maybe she and Raine could start a fan club..."

He drank more of his coffee, and drummed his fingers on the table. He tried not to think about family drama, but it was coming up more and more lately.

            "... and I said something about her family and she flipped."

Now, why did that sound familiar? He smiled into his cup as he finished the rest of the macchiato and feigned sympathy for Figaro's wild tale. Fire hex. Oh, that was very familiar. And there she was: Raine. Reinka. The little one with the cat shoes and the red curls and that very same way of turning her head - like Ira did - sharp, deliberate.

"Psychotic, no doubt about it." Layton murmured and patted the boy's shoulder with a smile. "Raine, eh? The Almasy girl?" he knew there'd been enough about her and her money in the papers to justify recognition.

The last he'd heard, the mansion in east London was going to be sold off. And she was living in Hiraeth with a squib. Easy target that squib; Layton had filed the thought away just in case.

So was this chatty wizard. "Bet you'll be keeping your distance from aurors now," he remarked thoughtfully. "Too bad that's where all the real interesting stories are."

Figaro shrugged and shifted in his seat again, angling out so he was leaning his back more against the table. The kid never seemed to hold a static position unless he was literally unconscious.

"That wouldn't be bad advice," he agreed. He didn't foresee setting foot on Level Two in a long while and doubted now he'd be assigned to any of the reporters covering the crime beat. But he had a few too many friends in the Aurors that he'd be able to avoid them all entirely, even if he wanted to. Fauna, the Fayettes, Adon Eleor, and yeah, alright, Raine.

"They know my name around there, now, so whatever that gets me," he laughed fatefully. A name was a funny thing, to be known was to be, at some level, exposed. His instinct had been to conceal it on Level Two, but then, doors didn't start opening until Fauna started singing it out.

Figaro might have been happy to keep talking about his dreadfully exciting life, but he remembered himself.

"Oh, right, how's it - the curtain business, was it? You selling a lot of drapery, then?"

Siiiiip.

They knew his name did they? That made Figaro an easy target as well. It would, really, be as simple as an Imperius curse, although Layton didn't like to dabble in the Unforgiveables. There were more creative ways to maim, murder and manipulate. He would set aside this child as well - another star in the network he was slowly beginning to perceive around Raine, around level two.

"Drapery?" Layton snorted and raised his eyebrows as if though Fig's question was a grave oversimplification. "It's decor, mate. Boutique hotel decor."

His sense of dress and general neatness - a change from the plain, unnoticeable approach of his previous persona - lent credibility to the career. Layton used to style himself in a way that would help him avoid attention. Now he did the opposite as part of hiding in plain sight.

"Business is alright. Lot of new places opening up north, don't know what they're about 'til I get there and tell 'em!" he laughed heartily, proud of his imagined skill. "But better be going now, got an appointment." Layton rose, folding up his newspaper and setting it aside.

Couldn't risk spending too much time with Figaro. The less the young wizard knew, the better. "Good luck with the Prophet, yea?" he patted Fig's shoulder and grinned. "Maybe I'll be reading your name in it one of these days."

"Decor, right, mmhmm," Figaro said, humoring the older wizard. Hey, everyone had their passions, and Fig reckoned Mr. Leslie could make even upholstery interesting. 

But the chat was over; there was still plenty of Thursday left.  Mr. Leslie had an appointment, and Figaro ought to be productive before his night shift. He needed food, to owl something up to Frank he'd forgotten, and Kurby had reminded him to visit St. Mungo's.

"Right-o," Figaro said in a noncommittal farewell, not attuned to the ways that Mr. Leslie's well-wishes were more likely a darkly foreboding omen.

fin