Daily Prophet Headquarters
8am; 29 November 2011


The Daily Prophet was underwater. There were scandals in the Quidditch League, the robberies hadn't stopped, there'd been two murders, there was another audit (or something?) at the Ministry, the charitable giving season was ramping up, and the sales department was in full frenzy to push for more subscriptions. Everyone from interns straight up to Cuffe himself were drowning. The bullpen was thick with owls and the cacophony of typewriters. Assistants ran article drafts back and forth between copy editors and reports, and there were more and more rows about semi-colons and acronyms and whether Dementor should be capitalized.

Figaro Sellaphix was certainly not for want of things to do. He'd gained a reputation of an assistant of endless energy and a surprising attention to detail. It turned out all it took for the formerly academically troubled youth to get his feet was contact activity and something actually interesting to do.

He had been in since six, had a pot of coffee to himself, and hadn't sat down since. Because he was a cheeky git and had been unbraided by Cuffe more times in a year than any other assistant, the reporters liked him and were monopolizing.

"Figgy!" Niobe Thursby flagged him down. "Beckon! I'm beckoning!"

Fig trotted over. He didn't like that nickname, but that's why they used it exclusively nowadays, because he'd whinged about it. Luckily he had his won.

"You shrieked, Nibs?"

"I could murder ye, y'know," the Irish witch said sweetly. "But I've got a special assignment for yeh."

Figaro crossed his arms and smiled. He as finally coming up in the world.

"You got a notebook? I need a quote from Level Two."

"Har har, bullshit," Figaro rolled his eyes. Was he ever going to live that down? It was months ago? Who remembered that?

Niobe scoffed back. "Dead serious. I'm swamped and I don't have time to sweat Carstairs about the that guy who got pitched off the cliff. You know him. And you've got Auror friends, right?"

Figaro was incredulous. "Are you mad? This is exactly how - you're messing with me. I'm not going to just show up on Level Two and - nah nah nah," he shook his head. "You're lying. So funny. Do you actually need anything?"

There was absolutely no way that he wouldn't get either hexed or laughed out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if he showed his face. According to sources, his 'interview' with Fauna  had broken a few records in the self-destruction category. Duration, intensity, most improved ... That and Barnabas Cuffe has specifically, personally promised death if he every pulled something like that again.

"I don't have time to argue with you about this. Look around - we're swamped. It's just a simple quote," Niobe said sternly.

Figaro hesitated. He did not want to do this.

"You know they hate me over there, right? Like, literally I am very not welcome. Carstairs thinks I'm a joke, Fauna would never forgive me if I tried to get her to do me a favor, and I'm barely avoiding Raine Almasy. You've got to find someone else. I'm just now getting to the point where Cuffe is calling me Sullivan."

He hated to do this, but this was a hard no.

"Well then, feck off. I don't have time for this. I do it myself..." Niobe ripped the page from her typewriter and began gathering her coat and bag.  "Go make some coffee."

Their argument had begun to draw stares, and Figaro was left with his mouth hanging open. What had just happened? He'd never seen Niobe lose her temper like this.

"Okay fine, I'm sorry. I'll do it."

Maybe it would be fine. Maybe she was right that this was a favor and was going to get him back in Level Two's good graces; he was on proper assignment instead of going rogue. Yea, it was going to be fine. What was the worst that could happen? Things on Level Two couldn't really get worse, and Niobe would take the rap if it went balls up.

"What kind of quote do you need? What should I ask?"

Niobe looked at him for a long hard second. The typewriters nearby had stopped, some curious heads poked over cubicles.

And then suddenly she broke out into a smile and began laughing uproariously.

"No, you moran, I'm kidding! Thought I was serious! Mate, I wouldn't do that to you!"

It was clear that more than a few onlookers were in cahoots because their laughter came as quickly as hers.  They tittered with doting condolences, with admonishments for Niobe, the cathartic laughter of a break in the chaos.

Niobe whacked him with a nearby newspaper.

"Your face, mate. Merlin, you'd've gotten killed and I'd miss my favorite gofer."

She bit her lip and whacked him again, her outright laughter fading to a smile. She watched him for a reaction.

"C'mon..."

Figaro just stood there, mouth open. His first reaction was to be angry. What the hell! He'd -! She - ! He hadn't thought she was serious but she'd thrown a fit and - !

He shook his head, scoffing out a sigh as he remembered to breath. A dozen people where grinning at him, some cringing.

"I hate you," he said a smile forming on his face. "I hate you so much. You're absolutely a psychopath, Thursby."

She was good. He had no idea it was coming. He had to give her credit. This was twice she'd had a bit of fun with him. But she didn't just get to pull something like that and not expect retaliation.

He grit his teeth, eyes narrowed, and pointed at her.

"I'm going to get you back. And it's going to terrible," he said, not able to totally hide a smile.

Figaro backed out of her cube, and gave her the snake-eyes gesture.

"Terrible."

Fin.