“It’s not fair, Mamá.” The 12-year-old grumbled as he stared across at his mum. The pair were stood by the front door to their flat above Witch Weekly Headquarters. Dante was wrapped in a big blue coat over his jeans and brown jumper. His mother, as normal, was dressed very neatly. Today, however, there was a more sombre sense to her choice of clothes. Her black cloak covered a black dress, white jacket and black heels. The boy had, half an hour before, told her that she’d looked like she was going to a funeral. She’d held back the comment that it was possibly her own.

“I told you, Mijo, I will let you know as soon as I do. But you are not going. It’s final. Difinitivo!” She was stressed, having gotten herself worked up that morning. Dante knew he wasn’t helping, but he was so frustrated. It was his age keeping him at home, but he couldn’t help his age. His age didn’t matter when his mum wanted to head out to one of her posh parties in the evening, or when she had him downstairs in the offices helping out. No, it only mattered now that his Dad was about to be released.

“I still maintain that I am mature enough for this, Mamá. You know I am.” Dante insisted, and his mum bent down marginally, pressing her lips to his cheek.
“I know, Mijo. The wizengamot does not.” An easy excuse. Dante rose his eyebrows at his mother, fixing her with ‘the look’. That was the look that parents should give their kids, not in reverse.

“Okay, vamos.” Mrs Gamp shepherded the pair out of the door, down the stairs and out onto the street.

Before they entered their destination, Genevieve stopped and looked back down to her son. Well, not that far down, he was tall for a 12-year-old, almost as tall as her if she didn’t wear her heels.
“I don’t want you getting too excited, chiquito,” She put a hand on his cheek, looking down with concern. “We don’t know what will happen today. And if he gets out, we don’t know how he will have changed.” The witch switched to Spanish, speaking quietly as people milled past them through Diagon Alley. “If I owl with plan B, you follow it, Dante. Don’t question it, you do exactly as I say.”

“Okay, okay.” Dante replied, before pushing through the doors open to the Daily Prophet Headquarters. Gen followed quickly behind him into the reception.

“G! Oh, this is him? Oh, isn’t he cute! He looks just like you!” Katie, the reception jumped up from her desk, excited. Dante looked anything but impressed. He wasn’t cute.

“Don’t tell him that, Katie, so uncool.” Gen commented with a tiny smile, Dante glared up at his mum.

“Yes, lips sealed. Go on through, the ogre’s in his tower.”

And that he was! Stood at the balcony to his tower, yelling down at the peasants below.

“Really? That’s Barnabas Cuffe?” Dante looked perturbed, Gen couldn’t help but grin down at him.
“Your babysitter, yes. Just don’t irritate him. Breathe quietly, don’t answer back. You’ll be fine, you can spell. Come on, Mijo, up to the tower.”

"And that's the last time! Congratulations! Send the wizard as !@#$'ing cake because that's the last time he drags the Daily Prophet through his gutter," Cuffe shouted down from the balcony. It was early yet, only about eight in the morning on a Tuesday, so there hadn't been an excessive amount of events occurring to piss him off too deeply. He was in an almost pleasant mood.

He barked an abrasive laugh at the muted reply from his politics editor. "Oh, you tell him I said that. Get his response in writing and we'll put it with the obituaries."

Yes, today was going to be a good day and then he saw two people who were going to wreck all of it.  It was Genevieve Garcia-Gamp, dressed in black, and her little boy. His face fell. That was today. Piss! Of course it was today!

Leo Gamp's release trial, the letter from Genevieve sent to their home, a place to stow the kid, his wife Agatha's community-minded passive aggressive voluntolding agreement, and her subsequent trip to sunny Santorini with her girlfriends, leaving him holding the, um, bag.  He ground his teeth, searching for an excuse to get him out of this but each one of them tasted horrible because it would be a categorically despicable move to abandon a mother and her child in their hour of need. Shit and biscuits!

"Genevieve, you look perfectly deadly," he said as they came up the stairs. "You got our owl then. Agatha sends her warmest wishes from Greece. And that must be Dante."

How old was the boy? Cuffe could never really tell anymore. He looked no younger than any of the idiots that came through the revolving door of first-level assistants, but on the other hand he realized he didn't know when children learned to wipe their own noses. Cuffe was staring.

Dante stared. He stared at the man yelling and swearing at his staff. He’d seen his mum yell at some witches and wizards at Witch Weekly. Was that where she’d gotten it from? At least she’d not also taken his appearance through osmosis. The guy looked like he’d been alive for 150 years and spent half of that life being dragged through bushes. Had he ever seen a hairbrush? Perhaps Dante would need to educate him today.

Sweetly, over sweetly, Dante smiled at up at the wizard as they came up the stairs.
“And that must be the old crust bucket.” He felt his mum’s gaze shoot down to him but ignored it. She could suffer a little for not letting him go to the Ministry today. He wasn’t a kid, she needed to start treating him like an adult.

“She does look deadly. Like she’s going to my Dad’s funeral, not his redemption.”

“Dante.” It was the mother’s tone. The ‘stop doing that now’ tone. But it didn’t sound right from his mum. She was the ‘sure, let’s ride down the stairs in a cardboard box as fast as we can, what’s the harm?’ type. He didn’t like this version of his mum.

“She’s stressed. Didn’t even have a glass of wine last night.” Dante looked over at ‘the old crust bucket’ with a look as if to say ‘would you imagine that!?’.

“Watch him,” his mum chose to instruct the bush creeper. “Thank you for this.” Dante watched, irritated, as she touched the old guy’s arm and led him a few steps away to speak to him privately. Stupid adults only talk!

Cuffe's bushy eyebrows shoved themselves together, dramatically wrinkling his tall forehead. The little boy had the bearing of a city squirrel who could, at any moment, run up a trouser leg and cause who know what kind of personal or professional or political disaster. However old Dante Garcia was, he had reached whatever developmental stage included 'cracking wise'. Cuffe wasn't sure if he should buy the little fellow a stiff drink or drop a sickle in Genevieve's hat as tip for her brilliant talking beagle.

He continued a stern visual inspection until Genevieve lead him a few steps away. His gaze lingered on the grinning boy, worried that any second lacking in supervision and he'd start chewing on something.

"Agatha is still cross with me for your coming over the other night and so she has punished me by agreeing to this. And you. She doesn't like you. Can't imagine why. What am I supposed to do with him? There's nowhere else you can keep him? Surely the Ministry of Magic has ... childcare?"

“That’s fine, I don’t like her, either.” Gen gave her former boss a strained smile as she spoke very matter of fact. They’d never liked each other. Heck, Gen and Barney used to dislike one another intensely. He still went on blathering rubbish that he’d sacked her all those years ago. That was a faux pas she could deal with. He was a good person, really. His wife? She was a stuck-up narcissist with a pretty voice. “Well, that’s a lie,” now, the witch did smile playfully, leaning in close to the wizard. “I like her punishing you.”

But Cuffe was more focused on trying to get rid of her boy already. Gen glanced back to see Dante letting himself into Cuffe’s office. She chose not to mention that just yet.
“He isn’t a puppy, Barney. Just give him something to do. You’ve had kids, it’s not like they’re totally alien to you. I need you to do this, I can’t be worrying about him while I’m worrying about…well…him.”

Feeling her own emotions heightening again, Gen pulled a pair of sunglasses from her cloak pocket and slipped them on to cover her eyes. “I knew I should have sent him to my parents last night. Then I could have drowned my sorrows in a bath of wine. Could you imagine, Barney? A bath of wine. Just soaking up the alcohol through your naked skin.” She squeezed his arm and smiled. “Oh relax. Just don’t tickle his tummy or he’ll scratch you.”

With that final comment, Gen turned on her heel and went to leave. “Say hi to your wife for me, Daddy.”

Barnabas aggressively pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't need an image of Genevieve cinematically half-submerged in what he hoped would be a very opaque merlot in his head.

"Tickle his what-?" Cuffe blinked and moved to get her back, but she was quick on those heels and throught he glass doors he could see Dante was in his office.

"Gamp!" he barked at her, trying to move in two directions at once. He tapped the glass of his office. "You! Don't touch anything!"

Then, back to the balcony.

"Genevieve!" He bit back several impatient words as he watched her go. "Good *&#%'ing luck, then!"

He waved a hand then strode back into his office and snatched back his heavy paperweight from the darkly-curled little boy. Cuffe stared at him for a few moments, pacing a little. He looked like his parents. Clean, as well. Dressed smartly. Barnabas had two children of his own, and from them a half-dozen grandchildren, but it had been a very long time since any of them were small and even longer that Cuffe had taken any responsibility for their care or nurture.

"I take it you know who I am, then?"

He'd called him 'crust bucket' on the stairs. Cuffe narrowed his eyes.

Dante watched through the glass doors as his mum left, shouted at by a swearing old crust bucket. Now he was stuck for the next few hours until she came to get him. By then, they’d have a verdict. By then, he could have a dad.

For now? He had to deal with the old fart levelling him with a judgemental gaze.

“You’re Barnabas Cuffe.” Dante told the wizard matter-of-factly. “Editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet since 1985.” Dante had, as ever, read up this this guy. The boy loved to read about famous witches and wizards. Whether Barnabas Cuffe was famous or infamous, well that was to be judged later.

“Some people think you’re in the Ministry’s pocket. Lots of propaganda during the war, I’ve read. Others think you were just doing your job to stop the public from panicking. There’s not really a clear answer, but your enemies clearly haven’t been loud enough because your still here. Personally, I’m a bit shocked you’re still at it. You’re renowned for having a really bad temper so it’s a surprise that your heart hasn’t given out yet or one of your reporters hasn’t killed you.” The twelve-year-old shrugged glancing at the paperweight in the old wizard’s hand.

“Is that the one you throw at people? It’s pretty heavy.”

"It is..." he responded and set the paperweight down on the corner of the desk.

"I don't know what's more uncomfortable," Barnabas mumbled, slowly circling towards his chair. "That you've done opposition research before coming here or that you've managed to babble out a better profile than my writers seem capable of. You seem like the kind of child who would take the latter as a compliment but I'd caution against that; it's a dismally low standard."

Cuffe, keeping an eye on the little boy, pressed a button on a brass contraption sitting on the desk. "Katie, get me ... Thursby."

        "She's out, Mr. Cuffe. Covering the Gamp proceedings."

Cuffe paused, finger on the button. "Groust?"

        "Not in this week."

"Cartwright. "

        "Sir, I--"

"Oh, piss off."

Cuffe released the button and frowned. He'd be having meetings throughout the morning. What in the world was he supposed to do with a child?

“That’s not very complimentary on your staff.” Dante replied as he plopped himself into a seat at the desk. Once more, the paperweight was in his hand and he started to turn it over, curious. Dante was always curious. “Perhaps you should hire m-”

"Katie, get me ... Thursby." Cuffe wasn’t listening, he was contacting the over friendly receptionist that they’d met on their way into the office. Thursby, the reporter that did that interview with his mum. She was covering his Dad’s case. She was at the Ministry of Magic where Dante should be.

Two other staff members were also unavailable. Dante frowned at his babysitter.
“My mum trusts you and you’re already trying to palm me off? That’s a poor show, Mr Cuffe.” He shook his head as if he were a disappointed parent. “She’d be gutted to hear about it. Why don’t I just go and I’ll be back here by the time she returns. She doesn’t have to know, you don’t have to babysit.” Dante rose from the seat and placed the paperweight back down. “We’re all winners.”

Manipulative little shit! Cuffe clamped a bony hand on the boy's shoulder and pressed him back down in his chair.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Garcia. There are several things that I won't be bloody doing today including: allowing you run of the city only to wind up missing or worse; be swayed by your lisping adolescent poppery; and halting the business of this newspaper to fetch you &$*#!'ing jaffa cakes and read you stories."

Cuffe tapped his chin, working on actually how he was going to avoid doing those three things. From the bullpen, above the sound of typewriters and the humming printing press, a bark of laughter seemed to pierce through. Cuffe laid his finger on the intercom.

"Get me Sellerflick."

   "...sir?"

"Lesserflax. You know who I mean. The kid. The loud one."

   "Ah, yes sir. I'll send him up."

Cuffe smiled down at Dante.

Oh, Mr Crust Bucket Cuffe didn’t like Dante. That was clear. He no doubt didn’t like children. Danre rather thought that the old codger had probably never been a child. He’d just appeared in that office in that chair with that hair. Yep, that was it. And his language? Well that certainly wasn’t suitable to be around a child with. He could quite imagine what his nanna would do with that mouth and some soap.

“I don’t have a lisp and I can read my own stories.” Dante rolled his eyes having been parked once more in the chair. “And your language is bad. Mamá says you only swear if your vocabulary isn’t good enough to find a decent alternative.” He smirked, feeling quite as if he’d got a nice dig in. But the old crust bucket was back on his intercom button trying to get rid of him again. Probably for the best.

The loud kid, Lesserflax was being sent up. Great. Dante returned Cuffe’s smile, sickeningly sweet, and cocked his head.
“Why do you tell everyone that you sacked my mum? Is it to save your ego? It’s weird because she calls you ‘Daddy Cuffe’. Does that make you ‘Granddaddy Cuffe’ to me?” The more he wound him up, the closer he’d get to escaping, yes?

      "Ey, Figgy, Cuffe wants to see you. Again."

The massive filing drawer scraped shut, and Figaro wiped the dust from his nose. "What? Why?"

    "No idea. But probably not a coincidence that Queen G just left here."

Figaro stifled an oath and momentarily contemplated flight. Things had gone to proper shit the last full moon, when he had stolen an admittedly discarded letter to the Daily Prophet open tip line, went on an ill-conceived adventure under the full moon, and inadvertently brushed up against a loose werewolf who'd already killed three muggles. He was on notice with Kurby Bagnold, Moira was dead to him, but so far he hadn't been found out at work. What Geneveive Garcia-Gamp had to do with that, he had no idea, but it was not likely to be good.

Wishing to avoid a public diatribe, Figaro made haste across the building to the Editor-in-Chief's second level offices and fully prepared himself for the worst. But instead there was a dark-haired kid sitting behind the desk. Figaro slipped in and kept his distance.

"Is that your grandson?" he asked outright, his filter failing with the surprise at seeing a child in his boss's boss's boss's office.

Cuffe scoffed. "Of course he !&%@ing isn't, Merlin's sack, how did you manage such a stupid question? Dante Garcia that's -" 

There was an awkward moment of finger flicking on Cuffe's part, the name of his least favorite flunkie forgotten. Figaro supplied the blank.

"Figaro Sellaphix."

 "Whatever. Take him. Go. Mind you don't kill him before his mother comes back."

With that, Cuffe gave Dante's chair a hard jostle and with his wand swung the office doors open wide.

"Now. Go. Good-bye. Begone. Vete!"

"Is that your grandson?" Another, youngish voice asked from the door, causing Dante to spin in his chair, eyes wide. Had this wizard been listening to their conversation because Dante did not look like Crusty Cuffe. Fortunately, Dante didn’t need to point out the ridiculousness because old Grand Daddy Cuffe started demonstrating his lack of vocabulary once more. So Dante happily watched the two…well…converse was a bit strong to describe this interaction.

"Figaro Sellaphix." What a name!

Before he knew it, Cuffe started to shake his chair, as if he were trying to shake some crumbs off before he could park his rear. Dante, disgruntled, jumped up and grabbed his rucksack from the floor, flinging it over his shoulder.
“Mum is going to be peeeeeved.” The boy elongated the final word. “She entrusted me to you, Crust bucket. He looks like he can’t even keep hold of his hairbrush.” A hand was waved at Figaro Sellaphix’s hair before Dante followed instructions and left the office.

Out on the balcony, he looked up to the taller wizard. “Sellaphix? Are you that Runespoor smuggler’s son? He’s out now, isn’t he? Is he responsible for those Runespoors on the Thames last month?”

Figaro's eyebrows shot up, impressed, when the kid called Barnabas Cuffe a crust-bucket. Fig had to figure the kid's parents were rich or something to get away with a mouth like that. Not that Cuffe seemed pleased about it, like he was suffering this little fool because he had to, not because he wanted to.

Out in the hallway, little nipper continued running his mouth. Figaro was again impressed at the absolutely phenomenal burn, and he couldn't help but lean back and wince.

"Bloody hell, kid, nice work on that. Savage," Figaro said. Coming from someone who hadn't gone through puberty yet, the attack on Rafe wasn't really going to rile. Anyone else, it might've provoke a punch to the mouth in the mood Figaro was in lately. Family was a topic that was mostly likely to find Fig's rare temper.

"Come on, we're getting food."

Figaro could connect the dots. This kid was a ticket out of actual work. 'Ooh, sorry, doing something for Cuffe, get your own coffee.' 'Ooh, sorry, gotta watch this kid for Cuffe, try Peters.' 'Ooh, sorry...' And a morning off meant food.

"What's your name again?" Fig didn't catch it amongst Cuffe's morning harangue.