"You'd look better as a Picasso!" Anton called over his shoulder as a parting shot.  He'd never anticipated feeling the urge to insult a painting before, but he hadn't been the one to start it, so he felt absolutely no guilt.  Besides, could you really insult a painting?  Did they have special oils that allowed them to get butt hurt?  If that were the case, magical art museums were bound to be emotional, anxiety landmines.

Luckily, she was confined to her wooden frame and Anton could promptly forget she existed. 

"I lied," Anton offered apologetically as he plopped two large, precariously packed shopping bags on the counter and let his book bag drop from his shoulder to the floor.  "I mean, I didn't lie.  I do make a mean chicken and wild rice soup but I didn't have any chicken.  And, the grocery store on New Year's Day is a dreadfully depressing place."  The only people who went grocery shopping on New Year's Day were boring or hungover and in desperate need of fatty foods.

Luckily, it had only taken half a dozen phone calls to find the absolute best remedy for stuffy noses and sore throats.  Or ...  ineffective magic.  Hey, it had worked for Anton for 18 years!

"It's not the best pho in town, but it's also not the worst.  And, they were open, which is always a plus."  He began unpacking the tall Styrofoam containers of broth and the clamshells of meats, herbs, peppers and vegetables.  From his backpack, he retrieved some tea and a jar of honey, a couple bottles of sprite and apple juice along with several bars of dark chocolate.  Just in case 'being cursed' and the 'panicked flu but okay' was witch-code for ... well ... cyclical blahs of a witcherly nature. 

They said all that stuff was connected to full moons and such, right?  Maybe it was even worse for witches. So, the chocolate.  And...

"Alanis Morissette.  Prince.  David Bowie - both music and Labyrinth.  And, Mrs. Doubtfire as promised along with Indiana Jones and Breakfast at Tiffany's.  All movies with appropriate limelight on hats or appropriately awesome hair styles."

"You brought the whole grocery," Fauna said in a wondering tone, blinking at the abundance of deliciousness on the kitchen counter. Mm pho soup for now and chocolate for later. A slight smile inched up her face as she glanced from the food to him in bewilderment. He barely knew her and he'd gone all out! She'd been stunned he had shown up at all actually, and had stood in the foyer for at least ten seconds tuning out the portrait's snarky, snobby comments before opening the door.

"Um, you didn't have to do all of this," she gestured at the array, looking sheepish and very muggle in her black hoody with a yellow mockingjay on it, a gift from her brother Artur to encourage her to finally read the Hunger Games books. She had.

In the back of her mind, she considered whether she could help pay for any of it. Did she have any muggle money here? She should. In her room somewhere.

But Anton was here and being very kind and she did appreciate it, and so she gathered two bowls and two plates and some silverware from the cabinets and offered him half of the stack.

Fauna started opening up containers, a chuckle escaping her at his list of DVD choices. His reasoning too. Nice.

"How did you know I grew up obsessed with Alanis?" She raised her eyebrows, impressed. And Tori Amos and Fiona Apple. David Bowie was high on her list somewhere too!

"Ok, Anton, Breakfast at Tiffany's?" She paused with a ladle in one hand.

"Did my text sound that bad?"

She was still half-smiling as she said it, but gave him one of her embarrassed furrowed-brow looks.

Fauna > Fig: ok i'm home. your phone still intact? will talk to you soon. So much family drama going on.

Figaro's phone was still intact. He'd had to wrestle it back from Frank over Christmas who was deeply fixated on a game called Angry Birds about flinging irate birds at pigs. Thus, he'd actually gotten Fauna's texts in a relatively timely manner; they'd woke him from his hangover. Fig was just one of those unlucky people for whom the hangover potions didn't work.

He let himself in, endured the harassment from the painting and followed the voices back into the house. He found Fauna and, oh, Anton in the kitchen with a bunch of shopping laid out. He peeled off his stocking cap and jacked and set them over a chair. Figaro looked like he'd just woken up, but he'd put on clean clothes. He winced a little at Anton's seemingly eternal chipperness. How.

"Hey, Anton. Alright, Faun?" he greeted. He handed Fauna a Starbucks cup. "Cinnamon latte."

If his head wouldn't have been pounding he'd be proud of himself; he'd remembered Fauna's drink. He also tossed a mesh sachet onto the table. "Dittany and garlic." His mum had packaged loads of it in a Christmas present citing 'something going around'. He assumed you made a tea of it rather than sprinkling it on toast.

Fauna didn't look so good, dressed down like she'd been hibernating. Fig took a seat, set down his own coffee, and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Only the good parts.  I left behind the bran flakes and celery root."  Because, who ate that stuff when they were healthy?  "Besides, isn't tossing stuff in the pho half the fun?  Tell me, are you a random greenery tosser or are you a meticulous soup artist?"  Using one of the newly fetched empty bowls to demonstrate, he pantomimed neatly arranging herb leaves on the surface of broth. 

That was, ultimately, more important information than squabbling over whether or not he had to do this and how of course he had to because it was an excuse to eat pho on New Year's Day. 

A strange voice echoed from the front of the house and Anton glanced up before his attention was drawn back to the queen of misinterpreting coincidence for irony. 

"Only because you're an awesome person and I only trust people who grew up obsessed with Alanis," he pointed out, flipping the lids on the clamshells open.  "Isn't that right?" he tagged on as one of the fellows from both parties joined them in the kitchen, with greetings all around.  "Fig, right?"

Without hesitation, he traced Fauna's previous steps and quickly found the right cupboard, pulling out a third bowl and plate.  By the looks of it, Figaro wasn't in that much better shape then Fauna.

"Ok, Anton, Breakfast at Tiffany's?  Did my text sound that bad?"

"How dare you?"  Anton cast an incredulous look in Figaro's direction, hoping for some back up as he clutched at his heart melodramatically.  "Audrey is appropriate for non-emergencies, too!  And, in my limited life experience, people who aren't in an emergency don't usually declare it's not an emergency?"  He shrugged as he began divvying the tidbits between the three plates after gesturing to the Starbucks cup in Fig's hand.  "Do you go up to the barista and say: 'not an emergency, but I need a mocha'.  No, you just say 'I need a mocha'."

Anton glanced at the small satchel Figaro set on the counter.  "Garlic?  Is this for the soup?" he asked, picking it up for a closer look.

Fauna was completely random about the greenery in her soup, but she didn't think to answer Anton, distracted by the sound of the front door opening. She stilled, listening closely to the nearing footsteps. The portrait of Madam Radford sounded cheerful, gleeful even. Ok good. Were her flatmates back?

Oh, it was Fig! Fig not in shiny shorts but an actual ensemble. She hadn't realized she'd told him to stop by.

Relief flickered over her face, then surprise at the coffee, and more surprise that he'd remembered her favorite.

"Thank you," she sighed, then sipped at the warm coffee, glancing at him slumped in his seat. She wondered if the storm of texts had woken him, but she was glad. Fig's presence meant she could maybe actually talk about it, while Anton's presence meant she maybe actually wouldn't cry.

She blinked, glancing at Anton in bemusement.

"Um, what? Not having coffee is always an emergency," she raised her cup. "Is that what you're saying?"

Probably not. Going to a hospital was usually an emergency, but she hadn't wanted to alarm anyone. Wixes flocked to the hospital for inconveniences as well as life-threatening injuries.

She paused, glanced at Fig, and gave him a half-smile. "Well Anton, you could put it in your soup. I think it's meant to be restorative."

At least the dittany was. She forgot what garlic did, other than ward off vampires or other dark beings.

"One second," she set down her coffee and the satchel, headed out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the foyer. Fauna checked and locked the extra locks on the front door, ignoring the commentary from the portrait about how the muggle and wizarding worlds were colliding and it was a certain young lady's doing. No, she couldn't take the credit for that.

Fauna glanced at her phone for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the screen. She pocketed it, trying not to think about the perturbed look on Stefan's face earlier.

When she returned to the kitchen, she attempted a smile.

"Soup and snacks for all of us," she gestured at the spread of options. "Er, unless you'd like coffee, Anton? I could make some."

Wait. Could she, in this magically-infused house?

Figaro looked at Anton a little wide-eyed when he twice pulled Figaro into a pre-existing conversation looking for validation. Fig's general baseline good demeanor won over and he nodded and smiled and made affirming utterances. "Yeah, uh-huh." and "Exactly."

He had no idea who Alanis or Audrey or Tiffany was but he didn't feel like thinking too hard so he was unbothered. He did keep an eye on Fauna - she seemed on the side of the living but didn't mean she wasn't ill. Fauna the sort to put on a happy face for the benefit of her friends. Figaro didn't immediately give much attention to the aromatic meal - he probably ought to get something in his stomach, though.

When Anton picked up Zelda's cold and flu mix and Fig looked at him sideways. What was he doing, touching another man's bag of magical herbs? What were the rules again? Things had gotten very murky last night and Figaro had lost track. Fauna wasn't helping.

"No, you - uh - don't eat it. My mum sent it." As if that explained everything.   

Figaro stretched his arms high over his head and his back cracked in a series of satisfying pops. In the middle of a yawn he beckoned at Fauna.

"No, sit. Relax. You don't have to do anything. You going to see a Healer or just rough it?"

"Ah - cool cool.  Traditional magical home remedies.  I get you!"  Anton nodded and promptly set the little satchel back down on the counter, lest it turned non-magical types purple or into toads or something of the sort. 

His mum had always scoffed at all those alternative approaches to healing; he wondered if any of this would change her perspective. 

Anton waved off the offer of coffee, pointing both index fingers at Fig in the universal Right on manner.  "I tanked up on coffee before leaving Virgil's, so I'm good with juice."  After the impressive assortment of uppers, downers and ... whatever potions qualified as ... some simple vitamin C was just what he needed. 

He grabbed the chopsticks and packets of oils and sauces from the bottom of the takeout bags and used the former to start adding goodies to his bowl of broth.

"So, I know I'm a new guest and all, but I'm assuming we're taking the curled-up-on-couches approach rather than the more proper table and chairs thing."  Judging by the awesome hoodie, Anton figured it was a safe guess but he'd been wrong about such things before.  Even if the former was a more dangerous approach with pho.   

Both Fig and Anton immediately declined coffee and gestured at her and offered her a seat. Fig, who was seated at the table and Anton, who suggested the couch.

Fauna glanced between them, the corner of her mouth giving a twitch. They were sweet. She felt a little awkward, unsure of how to act with a new friend and one of her oldest friends, but they didn't let her worry for too long.

"The couch is fine. It's survived Penny's dog," she moved into the living room with her bowl of pho soup, and came back for her coffee.

"Um," Fauna lifted a shoulder in response to Fig's question. "The Healers don't seem to know how to fix it yet, but it's gone away on its own for some people. I guess I hope it'll just go away."

Fauna mumbled the last bit. She sipped at her soup, and savored the taste for a second.

This flu bothered her for so many reasons, it was hard to know where to start. She needed magic to do her job. She needed magic to fix things with her family. She needed magic to feel like she had a fighting chance against dark wizards and dire wolves and ghosts, oh my.

"Er, hey Anton," she said shyly, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, though he seemed incredibly easygoing about whatever was going on with Virgil. "Did Virgil mention the no-magic problem to you at all? I'm going to try to find him at work tomorrow anyway but I was curious if he had any idea about where it's from or what's causing it."

Figaro came up from a sip of his Starbuck's looking like he'd missed something.

"No magic what now? Wait, you have that? That's real?"

Figaro turned in his chair. The Daily Prophet reporters had been trying to run down actual details about people claiming they couldn't do magic anymore. They were having a really hard time finding anyone who was comfortable talking about it publicly, but plenty of crazies with a lot of crazy theories.

And Virgil had got it? He'd seemed fine last night. Figaro looked about even between curious and concerned.

"Some arsehole keeps writing in about how he thinks it's a squib conspiracy, can you believe that? I mean obviously it's. Not that. How would they, even? People are idiots. You really can't cast anything? Damn. Is it like being in your weirdo no-magic closet? Like nothing? How'd you get here?"

Wait, how did Anton get here? Figaro looked at him. He really ought to have paid attention in Muggle Studies. Had he taken Muggle Studies?

With bowl of pho and apple juice in hand, Anton folded himself into an available corner of the couch.  "That's crazy!"  Anton offered on the heels of Figaro's exclamations, hoping he sounded like he knew what he was saying.  "That must be-"  Anton faltered, at a complete loss for how to complete the sentence. 

Anton knew he would never understand what it felt like to have magic and then suddenly be without it.  He was only starting to break the surface of understanding all the ways magic impacted their lives beyond the basics of flying condiments to breakfast tables and opening jars of pickles. 

"Er, hey Anton, did Virgil mention the no-magic problem ... what's causing it."

Internally, the little stick-figure version of himself that resided in his brain puffed up with pride and patted itself on the back for not only following this very magically-oriented conversation but also for feeling like he could contribute.  Though, not without some preparation.  Anton transferred a chopstick-full of pho noodles into his mouth, buying himself time to practice the sentence a few times in his head before saying it aloud.

"He was down with it for a couple of weeks and claimed he got it as an occupational hazard of Level 9.  So, it may just be around the Ministry - but it did seem to go away on it's own."  Again, the stick figure in his head patted itself on its back.  "He was back to his usual self well before the party last night and he never seemed overly concerned about it." 

He sipped at the broth.  "What, exactly, did the Healers say?  My mum's an ER doc so I know the difference between we don't know what's happening but we're more concerned about that guy than figuring it out and we don't have a clue and we don't like it." 

"Some arsehole keeps writing in about how he thinks it's a squib conspiracy ... How'd you get here?"

Anton returned Figaro's very pointed though unelaborated gaze and offered a long, slow shrug.  Unsure if the question had been directed at him or Fauna, he tagged on a rather lame sounding "uber?"

"Why would squibs even want to create some conspiracy?"

Fauna raised her eyebrows up into her hair. Had Fig not read the entirety of her panicked texts? She couldn't really blame him, but she did wonder if he understood how to scroll up and look at unread messages.
 
A problem for another time.

"The floo," Fauna smiled both at Fig's confusion and Anton's earnest attempt to offer sympathy. "I'm sorry. My no-magic flu," she chuckled wearily, waving her hand in the air, "Um, is making me take the floo system everywhere. So far."

Fauna blinked at Anton, masking her confusion by sipping another spoonful of soup. She couldn't remember who, in Anton's family, was a squib. Or a muggle. Or wait no, a squib. Squibs? A family of squibs. Merlin help her.

She ran a hand over her face, nodding at the information Anton helpfully supplied. A Level Nine hazard. She would ask Virgil about it at work tomorrow, if they let her come into the office.

Drawing in a breath, she sighed deeply. Couldn't anyone at the Ministry catch a break? Get a holiday? And why did people have to be such arseholes?

"Squibs wouldn't. People are arseholes," she shook her head, her eyes flashing. "People like to blame the powerless when they have no control over things because it's easier than saying oh hey, we have no idea what this thing is or how to fix it. The Healers don't know," she answered Anton's earlier question, her tone growing quieter but no less frustrated. "They ran a bunch of tests and I can't do a damn thing with a wand right now," she paused. "I think they're mostly worried about it morphing into some dangerous problem rather than a, you know, inconvenient one. What if it circles back permanently or does something different. That's if it is a flu and not a..." she ran a hand over her face and held it over her eyes for a moment, before looking up and away from her friends.

"A curse or something," her voice dipped unhappily.

Fig got up and followed the others to the living room. This business was bizarre. Virgil had come out of it, so said Anton, and the Healers had sent her home. Fig knew from experience they weren't shy about keeping you, so that must mean something.

He didn't sit, instead leaned against the fireplace for a minute. "They checked it wasn't just your wand?" he asked obviously. "You can try mine."

Soon as he said it, he realized it wasn't the most useful offer, but what else did you do? When someone was sick, you brought them food and Anton had that covered.

"You going into work tomorrow?" The Ministry of Magic had Floo access, but the Ministry ran on magic - what could you possibly get done. "Or are they going to make you stay home? They think it's contagious?"

Too many questions, Sellaphix. But he was worried and this was weird.

So, Figaro's transportation question had been directed at Fauna, not Anton.  With a decisive and confident nod that was in stark contrast to the actual confusion Anton was feeling, the muggle tried desperately to keep pace with the conversation.

Because explaining a new world culture was probably not what wizards and witches liked to do when they had the cruds.

"You flew?" Anton repeatedly, albeit a little quieter since he strongly suspected he'd misheard.  Which he had.  No.  She had the flu.  But, she had taken a flying system because of the flu but ... oh wait.  "Right!  Fireplace thingy."  Anton nodded and tried to look once more completely at pace with the conversation.  Sasha had briefly mentioned stepping into rip roaring, flames dancing fireplaces as a means of getting to the party the previous evening.  As enthusiastic as Anton was about learning all of this ... he wasn't quite ready to take the leap of faith that stepping into fires required. 

"Ubers are generally cleaner, you know.  And, helps university students buy the good ramen." he felt the need to point out.   Because, uni students unite!

Once more, Anton felt that familiar feeling of trying desperately to contribute to a conversation while well aware he was the least qualified individual to do so.  "Would a curse be hitting lots of people?  By the sounds of it, you aren't the only one - and Virgil did get over it.  He didn't seem to think it was that worrisome."  Having never had the benefits of magic, Anton had to actively repress the feeling of being the paraplegic guy listening to his friend complain about not being able to walk after breaking his leg. 

"If the doctors didn't think you needed to stay home, I can't imagine why your work would argue with them.  With our bugs, you're usually contagious before you actually get sick.  But, my mum would be the first to say staying home is about resting more than it is about being selfish about bugs.  So, it doesn't get worse."

Fauna blinked at Fig's offer, and pressed her mouth together to hide a slight smile. She might stop by Ollivander's anyway, just for her own peace of mind after all her failed attempts to use magic. Her wand was fine, right?

"Yeah, I think so. I couldn't get through one of their barrier tests. They warned me not to walk into any magical brick walls," she shrugged one shoulder and shook her head. Just like a muggle! She glanced at Anton, who gamely joked around, but of course, this was all new to him. He was more objective than Fauna's worried family had been.

Fig had a lot of questions, most of which she thought she'd answered, but luckily, Anton had his own theories and reassurances. She sipped at her soup and ignored the headache brewing.

"Right, exactly!" Fauna pointed her finger in the air, completely missing Anton's point. "I'm rested. I'm good! I've had a whole week and a half to rest. The gross, snotty part is over and now it's time for me to go back to work."

She sat up a little straighter, glancing at the fireplace Fig leaned against. Not now-now, but tomorrow! And what would happen then! Oh wait, she knew.

"They'll probably send me to the filing room," she grumbled. "I can just picture it. If you can't get rid of yer cold, then reorganize the cold cases, Flora," she mimicked Pratt's drawl. "But at least I'll be there, and be somewhat helpful, and maybe I'll get better by the weekend."

By January 9th.

"I mean, I have to."

Her brow furrowed. She had not felt very helpful in December, and had hoped to start the new year fresh and with an optimistic perspective. All she felt was more paranoid. Any number of criminals would love to curse the Ministry like this - Tawse, Kingstreet, the Hunts. She glanced at her friends, keeping the thought to herself.

Fig's expression darkened at the mention of the weekend. He'd never kept track of full moons at Hogwarts, not in advance. But since he'd started working at the Prophet and his world-awareness had expanded and with everything that was going on, he knew what was coming this weekend. He glanced over at Anton, still not always sure of the rules. But shouldn't someone warn him? Muggles were at as much risk as magic folk from transformed werewolves. More so, actually. The three deaths last moon? Figaro swallowed a lump in his throat and looked down. By some numbers he had a stake in what happened.

But he'd already danced around that with Fauna.[1] He wasn't sure if he should bring it up. He didn't want to drag up bad feelings when she was already a wretched thing.

"Filing is fun," was what he decided to open with. "I get stuck filing all the time. You get in the zone. Okay, sorry," he held up a finger on pause.

"Does he know about werewolves?" He rudely addressed the question to Fauna, but them remembered himself. "Do you know about werewolves? Do muggles have werewolves?"

1.	16 Dec 2011 - Damn Rough Life