Wednesday, the 28^19th of September
Pandora's Attic, tiny Diagon Ally junk shop
7pm

"Niobe Thursby, brave and clever.
Tell us, witch, now or never.
How you became, once a time,
Niobe Thursby, fingers nine."

Click. Niobe shut the lid of the little music box that had sung her a song in a far-away tiny tinny voice. "Creepy," she whispered and set it back on the shelf. Pandora's Attic was like that: browse at your own risk. You could as easily find a mint condition Morgana chocolate frog card, as a reasonably priced brand new brass cauldron, as a severed raven's beak that mumbled about blackbird pies.

Or a tidy little camera?

See, it went like this: Solomon Carstairs had a new assistant. (Thank you, Sellaphix.) It was the same Abigail Reid as in the Keswick case. (Thank you, Cartwright.) She was not infrequently sent for coffee. (Thank you, Jonas.) She was going out to find a camera after work. (Thank you, Abby herself.) 

Niobe would have felt bad for eavesdropping on the sweet young squib at Alohomocha if she had any intention to cause her anymore attention in the press. But no, the Daily Prophet reporter had no need to rain down more trouble for the Already Enough teenage squib. Niobe just needed a tip, or two. Just a taking of a temperature.

Jingle jingle

Someone had entered the entrancing little shop. Was it her new friend, right on time?

Abby liked Diagon Alley best when it bustled with people, but on a Wednesday evening she could still count on little Pandora's Attic, a sliver of a shop sandwiched between two rival broomstick stores, to float a lamp in the window.

She jingled in, waving at the woman behind the counter who looked up and gave her a bright smile. Just three days ago she'd purchased a dozen strands of flirtatious fairy lights, which were exactly as ridiculous and terrifying as they sounded. On Monday, she'd strung them up in Neville Longbottom's cubicle along with a copy of his Witch Weekly victory. Though they hadn't lasted long, Abby liked to think she still heard a dozen squeaky voices echo through Level Two's corridors: 'long bums, short bums, you've got a just right bum!'

Pranking. Her legacy.

As if sensing her mischievous tendencies, now she had a challenger from Witch Weekly. Lil Snigger herself had sent her an owl. Was she supposed to ignore it? She couldn't. The envelope had covered her desk in blue glitter, when everyone knew she preferred pink.

Abby, her red hair windblown and bright against her dark cloak, waltzed by rows of meditating skulls that filled the air with 'om'. She raised her eyebrows at an enormous barn door that displayed the words 'eat, curse, amortentia', and shook her head at a silvery, scaly moke skin draped casually over an old chair.

She paused in front of the more artistic offerings. Quills that corrected a youngster's handwriting - Abby put one in her basket for Pratt - and a set of wiggling paintbrushes that one could chuck at a canvas to achieve a splatter effect.

"Hmm. Accio camera," she sing-songed to herself, then shot the witch with dreadlocks a grin as she passed her in the narrow aisle.

Blimey, she was adorable. The photos in the paper did not capture Abby Ried's aire. She was like a firefly in a jar. Not like other squibs who seemed to visibly dim around magic folk. Perhaps that was Niobe's prejudice, but Abby had something else. It was hard to imagine anyone would want any harm to befall her. Well, bollocks, now she felt a little bad for stalking her.

Niobe smiled back and watched her pass.

"Hiya, you're Abby Reid? I'm Niobe Thursby, from the Daily Prophet," she said with softness and made no move to close the distance between them. It was rarely a good idea to try and conceal her identity and affiliation; first, she wasn't a totally unknown face in the media, so there was no use lying, and second, it just eroded trust if a journalist wasn't up front about it.

"How are you doing these days?"  For what Abby had gone through, the bright young thing seemed cheery enough, out and about alone on an evening. Niobe had to admit, had it been her she'd be holed up in bed.

Abby tensed, her hand hovering over the shelves, looking back at the smiling woman. The Daily Prophet! She recognized the journalist's name as someone who hadn't bothered her one bit yet. Nearly two months had passed since Abby had escaped the lakehouse, and she could only assume Thursby felt it an appropriate time to pop up like a dreadlocked daisy.

She glanced at her empty hands. No basket, no items to purchase.

"Well. I am popular with reporters these days," she drawled.

Turning to the shelves, Abby swallowed her unease and shifted a few paint sets to the side, peeking through the space to the front of the store, where the woman at the counter had remained. The door jingled, and Abby glimpsed a wizard step in.

"I think I recognize you."

The woman had a nice, lilting voice, and she could have sworn she'd heard her order something in another store.

"You like coffee?"

Abby raised her eyebrows as she glanced at Thursby again. The cashier had moved to the storage room behind the barn door, and the wizard was chuckling at the meditating skulls, and Thursby had kept a few respectful feet between them. Abby loved to be around people. But she hadn't felt quite safe in a long time.

Popular with reporters? Yes, she would be that. Niobe smiled crookedly, sympathetically. She remembered being on that end of the quill, and it was none too fun.

"I do," she said, hiding her surprise; it wasn't often anyone asked her questions. Most of the time, most people unconsciously followed the script where the reporter asked the questions and the other answered or didn't.

"Alohomocha. And there's that muggle place by the Ministry that's not terrible. The Corner? You might know it now that you're on Level Two. Congratulations, by the way. It's not easy to get a Ministry job."

Even harder for a squib.

Abby knew she'd seen Thursby at Alohomocha. She'd been to The Corner a few times, just around the corner of the Ministry. She nodded.

"Thank you," she said brightly, studying her face. Did she too, want dirt on Solomon Carstairs? Abby shifted her basket on her arm, curious about what she was shopping for, exactly.

"Level Two isn't terrible either," she smiled. "Though their penmanship could use some help."

Abby lifted the Lucida Quill out of her basket. She gave it a little wave, and set it back into her basket.

Niobe could never resist a good quill.  She opened her mouth in a little gasp, as if she saw a malamute puppy in the park, and approached. Her hand came to her chest, a subtle hint she'd love to hold it, but not daring to just grab for it.

"Ooh, magic quill? What kind? I'm such a nerd for quills."

As she admired it, she grinned. "Aurors really do have the most horrible handwriting," she agreed. "You must know Jonas Trevelyan! We've been mates for ages, since before he was an Auror."

Niobe loved Jonas - exactly what she thought all Aurors should be: honest, principled, and invested in the public interest. She understood why most Aurors were the way they were, but that didn't help her or the Daily Prophet much.

"It's the Lucida Handwriting quill," Abby held it out to her, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. She rarely met people who could match her pep for pep, quip for quip, quill for quill, even. Niobe Thursby, reporter, had charm.

Reporter, reporter, reporter, Abby reminded herself, eyes lighting up at the mention of Jonas Trevelyan.

"He's my favorite!"

The wizard browsing in the next aisle glanced through the gap on the shelf at this exclamation, and Abby shifted a deck of extra large tarot cards (the better to see into the future with) to block the view.

"A personal assistant isn't supposed to have favorites, I know, but I can't help it. He saved me from a Runespoor once."

Reporter!

"So, he always gets a conference room when he needs one - or an interrogation room, you know how Aurors are - and he's getting extra Ministry-approved chocolate next week."

Abby grinned, feeling more relaxed since she first walked in. "What was he like before he was an Auror? You must have stories."

Reporters always did!

Runespoor. Niobe didn't realize that at the mention of hit, her left thumb began rubbing at the stub of her cropped left ring finger, taken off by that same beastly serpent.  She smiled instead, sharing all of Abby's sentiments about Jonas and amused he had another fan.

"Loads," she assured her. "He was a private investigator, poking around and trying to be all mysterious," Niobe laughed.

She walked a few steps away, just enough to reach a stack of old cat magazines. The cover kitties were still mewing and rubbing against the headlines.

"But you must have stories," Niobe said, not so subtle in her attempt to kindle a tale or two from Carstairs assistant. "You must have heard about that hexing at Witch Weekly. A bit overdramatic, hm? Jonas told me Raine Almasy was sent to handle it. Aren't you two friends?"

Figaro had told her as much. All of them about the same age, and friendly despite Abby not attending Hogwarts with them.

"I've heard she's very ... daring."

Abby glanced at Thursby's hand. Nine fingers! She raised her eyebrows, then politely focused on her face.

"He's so earnest about his mysteriousness," she giggled back.

She didn't tell Niobe Thursby that she had known Jonas Trevelyan while he was an investigator too, though at the Runespoor tail's end of his investigator career. He'd helped her and her sister out. Seemed he was always helping them out. Favorite!

Abby nodded at the reporter's question, browsing the stacks of odds and ends. Raine was indeed her friend! One of her best friends. It definitely helped, living together.

"Brave and bold, such a Gryffindor!" Abby smiled. "Yup, she was there to break up the one-sided hexing party. This isn't about her, is it?" She gestured between them, curious if the reporter was angling to write about Raine. If so, she'd discover just how quickly Abby could shut up.

"She handled it all professionally."

Niobe couldn't be sure, but something subtle in Abby - was she protective of Raine? She certainly had reason to be. They'd both been given more than their share of press attention, and they were friends, and both on the same side of the red line. Fortunately, Niobe didn't need to coat the pill with chocolate.

"Oh no, not at all," she said, furrowing her brow and shaking her head. "Raine? No, of course. Jonas said the same."

Niobe raised her eyebrows in the sweetly inquisitive way she found useful. "I'm actually curious about Balfour Spectre. Do you know what happened to him? Did he get taken back to Level Two? I didn't see there were any records that he was charged with anything. Just a bit strange, you reckon?"

There was really no one who'd blame Balfour Spectre for wanting to hex the pants off someone for that article, but no one Niobe knew would have expected to have been sent out of Level Two with a lolly after.

Not about Raine. Good! Abby tilted her head, listening to the reporter's request. Perhaps Abby read too much of Witch Weekly, but Niobe Thursby didn't seem to care at all about Spectre's unfortunate love life or the son that had resulted from it, and that made Abby curious about her angle.

"I suppose so," Abby gave her that.

"Mr. Spectre was brought into Level Two, and he had a chat with Mr. Carstairs. I didn't hear anything about him being charged, though even the best assistant can't know everything," she gave Thursby a mock long-suffering look. "Once those doors close, I'm out of the loop."

Not really.

"Afterwards, I escorted Spectre to one of our lovely conference rooms where he sat, looking forlorn, as I assume things calmed down at Witch Weekly. Misslethorpe righted his eyeballs, Little Snigger righted her pot of glitter ink, Queen G reveled in the chaos, or whatever they do over there."

Right, direct attention toward Witch Weekly. Abby liked Spectre from what little she knew of him, and she liked and appreciated her boss, though they could certainly look after themselves.

"Oh look, a camera," she found one on the bottom shelf, and held it up with a smile at Thursby. An ancient, wobbly contraption. She hoped it wasn't cursed.

Niobe nodded thoughtfully, showing interest, giving a little laugh at Abby's lament she was but a lowly assistant. Niobe had to wonder, though, how long that would last. In her experience, those in Abby's position quickly became the eyes and ears of every little thing that happened, protected by the invisibility of support staff. You always started at the bottom, Niobe knew, when you wanted to find out what was going on at the top.

But it wasn't a trust loyal PA's would surely break. Pushing Abby to reveal anything that would get Carstairs in hot water would probably be fruitless.

"Oh!" Niobe mugged for the camera, holding up rock-and-roll horns, winked, and stuck out her tongue.

She decided to move forward. "I'll bet Witch Weekly was royally cheese off. Stormed in there, demanding retribution. Carstairs, too. A senior Ministry official, just off the hinges? I can't blame him, though. I'd have done the same."

Abby giggled, delighted when Thursby struck a pose. She mimed snapping a picture, then her finger slipped and she actually snapped a picture, and smoke bloomed from the camera as the photo appeared in her hand.

She gave it to Niobe, and glanced through the stacks at the shop owner. Abby held up the camera for her to see, and placed it in her basket.

"I can't blame him either, really."

Abby didn't recall hearing or seeing Sandy Misslethorpe storm anywhere, but he certainly could have during one of her coffee-fetching outings.

"Witch Weekly? They've been suspiciously quiet. Well, actually," Abby glanced around and lowered her voice. "I think Lil Snigger has gone off her hinges."

Abby let out a little snigger.

"She sent me the most wackadoo owl! Right to my desk. And apparently I'm not the only one. I noticed Mr. Pratt trailing blue glitter as he stomped around the bullpen yesterday."[1]

To the surprise of no one, it was the Aurors who did the stomping and storming.

"I didn't dare ask him about it. But I suspect!"

1.	Pratt by Name

Niobe almost snorted.  Ed Pratt got a strange letter as well, Niobe was sad to have missed that. She wondered what it said!

"Blimey, my boss got one of those, too! Thought he was going to explode."[1] It wasn't a coincidence it was that letter (and apparently others) that had lit the fire under the Prophet and had Niobe bugging law enforcement. It might not be a direct line, but it was possible the letters were the Witch Weekly's alternative to legal action.

That didn't set Niobe's mind at ease, at all. There was still the unanswered question of what had become of Spectre.

She looked at the photograph, actually pleased how it came out. Maybe she'd add it to her byline at work...

"So, what happened after you dropped Mr. Spectre off in the conference room?"

Did they just release him? Had there been handcuffs or a guard? Was he given a date to appear before a Wizengamot Elder? Had he even made an official statement? Niobe certainly entertained the notion that Abby had actually said all she knew; either that, or she'd reached the edge of what she could learn without badgering her.

1.	Sept 27 - Hit the Streets