Weds, November 2, 2011
Witch Weekly Headquarters


        "Belly of the beast, Figgy."

Niobe Thursby spun in her chair and handed Figaro Sellaphix a large envelope. She'd called the sweet little shit to her cube for a special errand. More of a ... surprise for Genevieve Garcia-Gamp who was not in her best of spirits, Niobe was sure.

"Come again?" Fig leaned in the doorway and turned the envelope. It just said 'GG'.

        "Drop this at Witch Weekly for me? Editor's eyes only. You know who I'm talking about?"

Figaro snickered. He very well did. She was that crazy witch who'd shown up and called Barnabas Cuffe 'daddy'.

        "That's right. Be sure to say hi for me, eh? Right then, shoo. Don't forget to come back."

---

Fifteen minutes later, Figaro was in the chic lobby of wizarding Britain's most egregious rag, leaning on the counter chatting up the receptionist. The envelope was under his elbows, mostly forgotten.

"Six inches easy. Maybe eight."

The receptionist said something.

"Definitely the longest I've had. It's Halloween. Life's short. Gotta go all in."

The two continued murmuring to each other, a pair of lower-rung winking print media peons.

"Bet he's regretting that. ... No, it looks good."

Oh, she felt terrible. Like death. Like she was dead. Like a swarm of wasps were buzzing around in her head stinging every nerve in her brain. Like her body was a corpse barely able to move and start the day.

It was 10am, and it was raining heavily outside. Yet despite this, the Witch Weekly editor stepped into the magazine’s lobby wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses, a giant floppy sun hat and a pair of stiletto heeled sandals with a dress. She looked robed for a sunny day in July rather than rainy and dreary November morning. In truth, Gen hadn’t even been outside. She had, in fact, simply descended the stairs outside the flat and come through a side door.

“I see no coffee.” The boy stood at the desk chatting to the receptionist, if noticed at all, was momentarily ignored and the witch gave her wand a flick, dimming the lights dramatically. She still didn’t remove the sunglasses or hat.

“I didn’t know what time you’d be down, G.” The welcome witch looked away from Figaro to her boss.
“I still see no coffee.”
The welcome witch’s gaze travelled over to the visitor and Gen’s eyes, behind her oversized sunglasses, followed.
“Did you bring my coffee?” He looked like a runner. When had she hired this kid? Had the drink wiped her memory now?

A witch who looked like she owned a yacht and had a cadre of teenage assassins at her beckon rolled up, and = he had to assume it was Genevieve Garcia-Gamp, the object of his quest. The reaction of the welcome witch was clue, as was her caffeine query posed his way.

He pointed at his chest. "Me?"

Fig looked over his shoulder at his new friend. He knew the look. He'd lived it. That thing where you were possibly about to get shouted by your boss. Figaro was uniquely motivated to redirect the attention from the receptionist and help her out. Take one for the team.

"Uh, no," he said, with a friendly shrug. "But I can get you some. Americano? Cappuccino? Latte?" He paused, considering the sunglasses and dimmed lights. "Black?"

Figaro had never met the famous Queen G, but judging from her grand entrance at the Daily Prophet (and Cuffe's panic over it) and Thursby's little smirk, he was guessing (hoping?) he could find a way to get on her good side early. He was just dropping off a package but why not take his time. Besides, everyone liked it when someone brought them food. And, now that he worked at the Daily Prophet, he was very skilled at coffee runs.

“You don’t need to shout.” The Editor cringed, waving a hand at him to speak more quietly. The first hangover potion hadn’t worked. Of course, it hadn’t. She’d gone overboard last night, drinking away her worries and concerns until she’d finally fallen asleep at 3am in an alcohol induced coma. Now she was apparently alive, even if it didn’t feel like it.

“The blackest.” She wanted the coffee strong enough to stand a spoon up in. She needed it dark and bitter and powerful. She needed to return to her bed. “And one of those nice…pastry things. You’ll know which.”

With orders given, Gen turned without uttering another word. She went through the double doors into the main bullpen of the magazine full of desks, noises and staff buzzing around like busy bees. Her busy bees. But not one busy bee approached her, instead, they all allowed her to move through the maze of desks to arrive at her own office in peace.

Fortunately, the office was already fairly dark as the overcast sky barely lit the room through the large windows. Gen threw her hat on the stand and went straight for her desk drawer to source and uncork a vial of hangover potion.

It must have been more than ten minutes before the knock at her door came and Gen, now sat at her desk, lifted her head up, sunglasses still on, to acquiesce entry.

When the door opened, Gen finally pulled her glasses off and dropped them on the desk. “I’d remember hiring that baby face. I just want to squidge those cheeks.” Slim fingers made a grasping movement as if grabbing and squeezing his cheeks.

Walking into Gen's office, a large coffee from Alohamocha in each hand, was like walking into a hidden chamber. Cloudy lighting, nicely furnished, and the impressively bored queen on her throne. She spoke to him again as he approached her desk.

About to sit, he had to just stop, his face entirely nonplussed and a little wide-eyed. But he quickly realized, he was not not into it.  She thinks I'm cute? Fig couldn't complain about that. He shrugged to himself, left one coffee on the desk and made himself comfortable in the seat across from her. The envelope was tucked inside his jacket pocket.

"And I'd let you - but no, ol' Thursby sent me over."  He sipped his coffee, sat back and crossed on ankle over his knee.

"Work at the Prophet," he said, filling in the obvious details. "My name's Figaro. Everyone calls me Fig."

Looking back on this morning, he'd actually be surprised at himself. Queen G was notorious and he was usually more ... laced up with his elders. But she wasn't his boss. And she'd started it.

As if he’d been invited to stay, the boy plopped himself down in the seat opposite and made himself as comfortable as only one could do if they didn’t know the office’s owner and what sort of torment they may be letting themselves in for.

Niobe, Prophet, Figaro. Figaro. Now that sounded somewhat familiar.

“Figaro…” Queen G felt the word on her tongue as she sat back, newly acquired coffee now in her hand. Where was her pastry? “I guess your mother isn’t a fan of French muggle opera? Figaro was a Spanish barber, a schemer of cunning and dexterity.” Perhaps the kid knew.
No, she very much doubted that the kid knew.

“Why are you in enemy territory, Barbero?” Dark eyes cast over him. “And where is my pastry?”

"Family name," he said with a shrug. Fig had been named for his dead muggle uncle. He had heard it was a name from an opera, and a cat from a muggle film, but cunning and dexterity? - that sounded better. 

And then a brief but intense look of fear flitted across his face. He'd forgotten her pastry. Merlin's balls, the simplest thing! For a moment, his mind raced trying to think of what had thrown him off. Oh right, someone spilled a cappuccino on a dog named Cappuccino. It wasn't his owner's cappuccino, it was someone else's cappuccino. Cappuccino the dog had started licking the cappuccino off his own bum while the owner of the spilled cappuccino demanded a new cappuccino from Cappuccino's owner, who gave him his own cappuccino.

Figaro made a quick choice not to lie about it, or even try to gloss over it. The Queen was looking at him with a dark gaze that convinced him quickly that she'd figure him out right away. Tiniest bit of color came to his cheeks.

"Oh right, sorry, I got distracted. Someone spilled coffee on a dog," he shrugged again, rather successfully keeping it casual. He bounced his foot on his ankle and too a sip of his own coffee. "It was a national incident. But I might have something sweeter."

Sweet like a fig? Play it cool, arsehole.

Coffee spilled on a dog and that resulted in no pastry for the queen? That must be the reason she hadn’t hired the kid. He wouldn’t last at the Daily Prophet under Cuffe if he forgot things as important as pastries.
“I don’t want sweeter, I want my pastry.” And what in Merlin’s name did the kid mean when he said he had something sweeter?

A long sip of bitter coffee was taken and Gen remained silent, eyes closed for a long minute. The hangover potion was seeming to take affect and she felt less likely to empty the contents of her stomach over the plush carpet.
“What do you want, Barbero? Why here on enemy territory without my pastry?” Another gulp of coffee. “Are you my present from Niobe? Only I can’t do a fat lot with a baby-faced boy who gets distracted by caffeinated puppies.”

If there was one thing that Figaro was good at, it was talking his way out of things. Or talking his way into things, into things like ... trouble. He might not have been so keen to talk his way into the good graces of Queen G if she a) didn't keep patting him like a puppy and b) wasn't one of the most amazing witches he'd ever seen, even obviously hung over.

She wasn't happy that he'd forgotten the pastry and was growing impatient enough to demand business. And to know if he was the present. He hadn't asked what was in the envelope because Thursby would have kicked him, but she was the type to send him into a dragon's lair just for a laugh. Sent him to the Witch Weekly empty handed.

He opted for a grin, a grin at her estimation and a grin at his new nickname. He'd had worse.

"You never know...," he suggested. "Wouldn't put it past her."

Fig stood up and slid the envelope from his jacked pocket all the way across the desk with her. He stayed standing, one hand with his coffee (sllllurp), the other in his pocket.

"So, what is it?" he asked. Sluuurp. "My resume?"

Figaro didn't have a resume, and would never leave the Prophet, but he didn't figure she'd know that.

The cup of coffee in her hands was replaced with the envelope which she slowly and carefully opened. Inside were a bunch of folded up letters wrapped in a piece of string. Atop the pile was a handwritten note:

The corners of Gen’s lips upturned and she smiled down at the note from her old colleague. Was this bear delivery a blessing or a curse?

“Resumé?” Gen smirked, eyebrows raised. “Hogwarts brat to Daily Prophet bitch is hardly a detailed curriculum vitae, kid.” The letters were dropped back on the desk and she waved at the seat he’d been parked in a moment before. “We’ll need to work on that. Sit.”

Brat and bitch? He scoffed, but immediately obeyed without thinking, stepping back, sitting down, and puffing a breath out of his cheeks.  See, there were worse things than 'barbero'.

Figaro had tried to get a glimpse at what Thursby had sent Queen G, but all he could see was a bundle of folded papers and a small note, which clearly amused his host. And holy bollocks, was his resume actually in there? It was small enough. A thought occurred to him: was this Thursby's way of sacking him? No chance - she loved him and Cuffe was starting to forget his name. He hoped.

He bit one of his nails, hoping to look unbothered. "Yea, right. Mostly accurate. Just missing I was editor of the school paper.  Covered the tournament. And I managed to get through it without anyone barging in and calling me 'daddy'."

Figaro waited a beat then looked back up at her with just the tiniest bit of a smiled in his eyes.

Editor of the school paper? Gen would have made a sarcastic comment about how that surely qualified him to be an excellent reporter, but he continued to talk. The tournament must have meant the tetrawizard tournament which, rather sadly, didn’t have as much juicy gossip at she would have liked.

But then he mentioned ‘Daddy’ and the witch grinned broadly.
“But what a show!” Her eyes widened and she leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “You need a work family, Barbero. Cuffe may as well be my Daddy; he shouts like an angry Mexican and, shockingly, very possibly cares more than my real dad. Niobe? She’s the favourite daughter. Or maybe the step sister that gets all of the attention and love. I’m the outcast daughter that sold herself to the sleazy stripping trade…or the devil. He’ll have no qualms in telling you that he made me, though.”

She took a sip of coffee, well aware that she’d totally gone off target for the conversation, but enjoying giving the kid the down low on the ‘family’ dynamics.
“What do you think? Did Daddy Cuffe crown the Queen?”

Oh, god, Figaro had a total of zero idea of what she was talking about, only that she kept calling Cuffe her daddy. He laughed nervously. She'd animated and was leaning forward. He hadn't been sure how the 'daddy' thing would go, and still wasn't sure if this was the preferred outcome.

Even so, Figaro sensed this was one of those situations where someone would spring from a drawer and demand to know, 'don't you even read the prophet fig dear twit!?'. Figaro looked to be deep in perplexed thought, trying to connect dots. Was she saying she was his mom? Or that Thursby was his mom? Or was Cuffe also his ... dad... ? Grandfather .. Wait did Queen G used to work at the Daily Proph-

Oh, right. She was that Genevieve Garcia. She was in the paper right now, that trial thing with the Death Eater. He didn't hide his moment of epiphany being read all over his face. 

"Um. Yes! Yes he did. And I think he's done a well bang-up job," he said, a bit eager to appease her. "You're a very good queen."

He studied her face, now catching up. "Or not. I mean," he waved towards her, "very, nice, queen. You are. Obviously. You're Queen G. But Cuffe fired you, so - "

So what could he have had to do with her success? Sluuuurp.

He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Trick question."

“Cuffe fired me?!” The editor of Witch Weekly loudly blurted out with a laugh. The remnants of the hangover had mostly gone now thanks to the potion and the strong black coffee. She was far more alert than she’d been half an hour previously. The wonders of potions, drugs and amusing teenagers!

“Oh dear, is that the story he tells all of his minions at the Prophet?” It was his saving face story. It would be too much of an embarrassment for him to admit that she quit the Prophet to work for the Weekly. Gen still remembered the rumours flying around after her shock exit. According to Cuffe, no one at the Daily Prophet had really liked her, but they’d all wanted to know why he’d been so perturbed and irate over their final discussion. People didn’t tend to stand up to Barney Cuffe and Gen had been one of the first. She liked to think it had rather made her a legend over at the paper.

“He didn’t fire me, kid.” With a long gulp, her coffee was finished and Gen found herself longing for more. Or something much stronger. But no, too early even for her. She had a day’s work to get through first or she’d be without a job as well as without her sanity.

“I told the old ballsack to stick his job and he offered me tea by way of placation.”

Figaro laughed and wiped his face. Eeent! Wrong answer! But now he understood it. Figaro couldn't remember where he'd heard that she was fired (certainly not from Cuffe, whom he'd been very careful to say out of sight of); it was just the talk round the assistants' after she showed up with the whole 'daddy' thing.

"That's just what I heard!"

'Who the hell is that?'

'That's Queen G, ya twat. Cuffe fired her and now she's Witch Weekly.'

'I wish she'd fire me. Daaaang.'

He shifted in his chair at yet another clever nickname from the Queen, half thinking the man himself was going to come waltzing in.

When no Cuffe came popping out, Figaro laughed again and settlied back down into the seat. He'd certainly made himself comfortable.

"Doesn't seem fair - I didn't get tea. How'd you get tea? I shit myself. But tea, that'd been better."

Figaro could still feel his heart stop dead when Cuffe had laid into him over the Carstairs thing.