Friday, 28 September 2011
10:am
The Corner, just a few steps away from the Ministry of Magic

Well, this was weird. She and Jonas usually met at Niobe's favorite corner of London, the family run Indian Restaurant, but this time they were to rendezvous at The Corner, a tidy muggle cafe nearby the Ministry. This was one of the very rare times that Niobe kind of wanted to be seen. Her relationship with Level Two was kind of trashed after her utterly shameful muggle-baiting arrest in 2008[1], and so showing her face in the Ministry had been a calculated move since then. But things were beginning to smooth out...

This was a reporting assignment that wouldn't be successful of Level Two felt at all surprised or ambushed, so easing in as she made her way through the ranks was the best course.

Jonas was already there when she arrived.

"Hang on, just going to grab something."  She joined the queue at the counter, and was back in a jiffy with a hot cup of black tea.

She wrinkled her nose as she made her greeting. "Heya. I've got my quill today." It didn't mean she'd insist on-the-record, but it did hint that she was digging.

You see, it was of some note to the Daily Prophet's readers if there was a possible cover-up, an assault by a high-level Ministry official being brushed under the rug.

1.	Halloween 2008 Case File

It had been nearly three weeks since the last time he'd sat down with Niobe Thursby, and Jonas had been expecting the call.  The last time he'd seen the reporter, he'd guiltily left owing her one after he'd decline to give her any details about the robbery in Devon.[1]  It wasn't like Niobe to leave him suspense, and sure enough, he'd received an owl to chat again before the month was over.

This time, she'd suggested they meet right around the corner from the Ministry.  That had been a bit out of the usual in itself.  Usually, their off-the-record talks were conducted in locations where no one on-the-record might see them.  But Jonas had gamely agreed, and so he was seated at a booth dressed in street clothes, sipping coffee when the reporter arrived.

Jonas arched a brow at the pronouncement of the Verbatis quill, but he didn't protest.  In the several years he'd been interacting with Thursby, she had yet to betray any professional confidences.  If there was something he didn't feel like he could share officially, he could either stop talking or ask to go off the record.  At worst, she'd get a few odd looks from the other patrons for her decidedly hipster writing device.

"Nice to see you too," he replied cheerfully, flashing Niobe a crooked smile.  "Things must be going a bit better in the office if we're chatting again, yeah?  Cuffe's let you lot off your leash?"

1.	September 10, 2011 - Show Me Yours

"Yeeeaaaah..." Niobe drawled, adding an intentional vocal fry.  "Yeah, it's good, it's good. Cuffe, he got sent a bit of a gift in the post and it's really given his old broomstick a lift."

She sipped her tea then produced the fluffy black quill. It wasn't a particularly discreet implement, so she hauled up a really shocking orange purse and set it on the table. It blocked the view sufficiently.

"Mmm, hot. Alright. Mr. Auror. Trevelyan..."

Had it been any other Auror, she'd have phrased really general questions like, 'describe the typical procedure when the MLE is called about a wand altercation', but she didn't want to play games with Jonas. It would have felt fake. Better to get right to it.

"So, who'd they send down to Witch Weekly to handle Balfour Spectre? I hear he just strolled on in and got started, and someone called the redrobes."[1]

1.	Sept 24 - We Are Who We Are

The red-headed Auror blinked.

For the second meeting in a row, this conversation had taken an immediate turn that he wasn't expecting.  Thursby, as always, had a knack for knowing information that Level Two hadn't necessarily expected to get out to the press.  But this time, he didn't have any nefarious reason to deflect. 

Jonas paused, glancing self-consciously at the fluffy quill in the reporter's hand.   It was one thing to act as a source or leak information about his own cases.  It was another when the Head of the Department was involved.

"This is all on background," he said, by way of establishing the ground rules.

Niobe looked visibly put out, like a sister pouting at being left out of the game. "Background, Jonas, bollocks ... don't you feel even a little bad about Devon? Don't you want to patch things up with your number one mate?" She meant herself, naturally.

"You can't say I ever got you in trouble. We've got a good thing, you and me."

She nodded for extra emphasis, and tapped her finger on the table. The quill tapped its nib.

Niobe could negotiate. Jonas had his job to do, and she had hers. Background, if it was good was useful, sure. It was enough to repeat without specific attribution to get a second source to confirm, which was printable. But nothing was as reliable, as transparent, as trustworthy as a name with the right connection. And this story needed all of that.

"We can do a bit of background, but I've got to run this thing down. My byline means something. It means I get the shit right. So c'mon, this is the easy part. Just a routine domestic. Who got stuck with it?"

He was practically being waylaid by a modern retelling of The Little Match Girl, so guilt-ridden was the story being presented to him.  Jonas angled an extremely dry look at the reporter.  Yes, he knew that he technically owed her one, but he didn't need his arm twisted behind his back while a pair of knuckles was being ground into his head to remind him.

He rubbed his chin, considering Thursby's question.  Although he didn't want to throw the Auror trainee under the bus, there wasn't really much harm in answering this one.  Besides, Niobe could surely confirm it simply by talking to the crew at Witch Weekly, who had witnessed the entire affair.

"Almasy," he said after a beat, only a little begrudgingly.  "Carstairs sent her.  Don't be too hard on that angle, though -- she's got enough to worry about with the papers without getting hammered for following routine orders."

For a moment it looked like being cute wasn't going to work on Jonas, but he seemed to see reason.  And Niobe froze in the middle of mouthing 'Almasy' - not immediately remembering there was a teenager with the surname, some distant relative. She'd been in the Prophet once or twice and wait...

"Hold on, Almasy?" she was grinning incredulously. "Uh, you're saying Carstairs sent Raine Almasy - in training - to drag off Balfour Spectre from the Witch Weekly after they published a piece savaging the long long son of her evil auntie? I mean, that's bloody messy. Is London really that small?"

Her quill recorded everything. Niobe didn't know what she'd do with that information exactly, but it was helpful that Jonas provided that link of the chain of events. Maybe Carstairs's choice to send Raine meant nothing. Routine, after all. Good excercise for a trainee. Or maybe he sent someone who'd be more sympathetic to Spectre than to poor hexed Misslethorpe.

"Don't fret, wee Raine's small fish. Routine orders, as you say. Certainly don't need to bother her, since you probably know what happened once she got there?"

So this was what it felt like: to be on the other side of the firing squad.  Jonas arched an eyebrow at the reporter, even though he'd already resigned himself to playing along.  Better to try and frame this in a bemusing light, instead of getting frustrated that he was being railroaded.

"Is London really that small?"

"Magical London is," he replied cheerfully, stretching out his bad leg under the table.  It was, surely; the magical world in general seemed to be full of all kinds of coincidental connections and happenstance happenings.  He and his own niece, Grace, were examples of that.

Niobe, ever the good comrade, reassured him that Almasy wasn't her focus in this story.  His forehead creased at her next inquiry.

"Well, I don't make a habit of reading every case report," he replied, giving her a dry look.  "Lot of bloody reading to keep up on, innit?  From the bits I heard around the office, she did a competent job of extracting Spectre and brought him back to the Ministry."  He shrugged, not really sure where the journalistic interest was in this one.  "Haven't heard if the Witch Weekly lot decided to press charges or not, but it sounded like Spectre ended up on the wrong side of a tongue-lashing from Carstairs."

Niobe sat back as the quill did the work.  She waved a hand in agreement that reading everyone else's case files was an unnecessary task - Niobe certainly didn't read every article in every Prophet.

"No, no makes sense. So far I haven't heard that the incident spiraled into any bloodbath. Both he and Misslethorpe strike me as a bit buttoned-up."  Regular, professional blokes who probably hadn't dueled since Hogwarts. Which is what made the spat unusual. But what made it newsworthy was the last part.

"A tongue-lashing, right." Niobe cocked her head to the side and winced. "That's what Cuffe is on. The angle is, he's bothered that Spectre might be getting special treatment. It's probably nothing."

She believed that. "But we have to run these things down. People will want to know they'll be treated fairly, right?" 

It was at this point that she flicked up her magical black quill and stowed it away. Jonas had been as forthright as she could hope and didn't want to take too much advantage.

"That's what I'm for. Get the whole story. If it's nothing, great. If it's something, well. Then we deal with it."

It was probably nothing.  If Jonas had to lay down a wager, he would have bet that there was nothing more to the story with Spectre and Witch Weekly than what it seemed on the surface.  Balfour Spectre had gained a reputation on Level Two for being a bit brash and a bit unlucky, with horrendous taste in women that sometimes bled into other matters.  If he had had a confrontation with the gossip magazine's staff, it had likely been a lot of bluster with not very much else underneath.

But then again, that was the role of journalists everywhere: to look into the incidents that seemed like nothing, and prod to ensure that they really were as harmless as they seemed.  Jonas respected the press and the role that they played in keeping a government honest.  If Niobe's boss thought this might be a story worth looking into, he wasn't one to put her off it.

"Well, if you want a bit more of a first-hand take, I'd try Abby Reid," he said cheerfully.  "Carstairs' new assistant.  He has her working long shifts, so she would've been there when it all went down."  He gave her a cheeky wink.  "Drop me name if you need to, but just be your usual charming self and I reckon the two of you'll be mates in no time, yeah?"

Niobe's face brightened in surprise and she leaned forward to cuff him on the shoulder.

"Jonas Trevelyan!" she sang through gritted teeth. "I don't deserve you." 

She leaned back and used a mundane pen and notebook to write down the name she'd heard. "Abby Reid, huh? The same one from the squib thing?"

Temperance had been covering that, lucky git, but everyone was up on the case and helping with background. Niobe's intentions to find Abby hesitated only briefly. Like Raine, young Abby had probably had enough of reporters. Other than mollycoddling a grown witch, there wasn't any other reason to avoid a quick word.

She shut her notebook, then said with unusual sincerity. "Really, thank you."

The Auror waved off her thanks as he rose to stand, taking care with his bad leg.  Abby Reid was a smart young woman, and he didn't feel so bad putting her in the journalist's sights.  Better to start her off with someone with Niobe, who would be upfront and keep her word, than to get introduced to the world of reporters through someone less trustworthy.

Besides...he did owe Niobe after the Devon case, when she'd kept most details about the break-in at the Aldridges' home out of the paper.  Now they were square once again.

"All part of the game, innit?"  he replied cheerfully.  "Might want to stop in to grab a cuppa at Alohomocha -- she gets sent out for coffee a fair bit in the afternoon."

Tipping an imaginary hat to the reporter, he started off.