31 January 2012
Tuesday @11am
Permits and Inquiries Notary Office
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
Ministry of Magic

Figaro Sellaphix had been the last person in the Permits and Inquireies Notary Office for what felt like a week. He stood blandly whispering the lyrics to some Hawkshead Attacking Formation, absently bobbing his head, staring off into space.

Work at the Daily Prophet, they said. Excitement abounds, they said. Opportunities for advancement, they said. There must not have been space in the help wanted advert to mention taking up space in queues. Figaro had been back at work for a couple weeks now. He wasn't thrilled to be on Level Four, what with what had happened during the last full moon and who he might run into, but by the time he found the PAIN corridor he could see clearly no one came down here unless they had to. He wasn't going to run into Tessa Fenneken, or Tia Gamp, or Auror Xin. He couldn't imagine Kurby Bagnold stood in line for his own paperwork.

It would have been faster to do this by owl, Figaro thought. Every so often they'd all shuffle forward, but he could swear the hallway was cursed, everyone doomed to be in an unending queue. He stepped out into the hallway a little more to try and see to the front, to make sure they weren't just lined up behind some git standing at a closed window. Behind him the lift chimed. He glanced back, grateful to at least not be the last any more.

But he saw someone he hadn't expected at all. He set his smile into a flat line. He couldn't turn around now; he'd made eye contact.

"Hey..."

Moira rode the lift to the fourth floor after finally being checked in by the welcome witch. This work task was punishment, she had decided. The job was a necessary evil, but many of the other hands were just as capable of turning in a notice and getting an approval signature. Still, her boss had been incredibly lenient and considerate of all the time off that she had been taking, sick or not. She didn’t have any room to complain.

Beginning Wednesday the first (the next day), the witch would be taking at least a week off of work. Both Duncan and her dad would be away on business trips. That left her as the sole person to run the farm, taking care of the land and horses. At least standing in line would give her the opportunity to begin thinking about the best way to go about it.

The lift dinged and Moira’s plan flew away. At the end of the line stood Figaro Sellaphix of all people, on the fourth floor of the Ministry of Magic of all places. Her ex-friend had spotted her immediately, offering a less than enthused greeting. It was too late to pretend she had gotten off on the wrong floor.

Keeping her expression schooled, Moira took her place at the end of the line. Behind Figaro. “Halò,” she greeted in return. The witch felt both wary and awkward she offered a polite, “How are you?”

Fig hadn't seen Moira since he was shouting/mocking her at the New Year's Eve party. He'd been plenty angry at her then and had all the reason to be. She's taken the most important part of their friendship, hacked it to pieces, locked it in a box then dropkicked it out to sea without so much as a word of condolence to send it off. But eh, life went on, time dulled wrath and boys found themselves material witnesses in major murder cases. It was also enough time to get settled with the idea that he was never going to get an apology from her.

"Ffffffine..." he said, cooly. He'd never managed the half-lidded snark of Virgil Carstairs or Moira's completely blank disinterest or even Sasha's emotional depth of resentment, but he could always try. "You know. Just loving life. Queuing. As you do."

He realized she wasn't glaring at him, so he eased off a little bit.

"Here for work?"

Figaro’s response to her polite question was an atypical one for him but not unexpected. He had more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice and Moira was almost sorry she asked. Perhaps standing in line forever in an awkward silence with underlying hints of hurt and malice instead of awkward conversation would be more preferable. Likely they’d be stuck in their own heads soon enough.

Moira didn’t blame Figaro for blaming her. She had long since accepted it and perhaps it made her feel just a little bit better. The witch still didn’t regret her actions in talking with Bagnold or that they led to the path that brought them here. Besides, everything now lied in the past. It was too late for regrets.

“Aye. Paperwork. You know.” After a moment’s silence, “You?” She could at least be civil until he acknowledged their reasons for being here were the same. Then they could begin the not-talking part of their wait.

Figaro nodded and shifted from foot to foot, bored of standing. "Yup. Official Daily Prophet business."

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "We've got fact-checkers," he decided to explain. "One of the reporters writes a story, then someone has to double-triple-check they're not spinning information from nothing. Apparently. So here we are waiting to confirm some nutter bought some dragon off some other nutter."

Figaro shrugged. No one could deny he was learning loads since starting his first proper job last summer. He was becoming a proper expert, really. An expert on the way the world worked. If he wasn't careful he was going to make something out of his life.

Official Daily Prophet business. There it was. Both of them were standing in an endless queue for reasons related to work. Now there was nothing to talk about. Except Figaro shifted restlessly again and continued talking. Moira had always been amazed at his ability to do that.

Figaro explained his current role and Moira listened. The process he explained sounded long and drawn out but all the steps along the way were crucial. Even if she would hate working there, she could appreciate an efficient system.

“Yeah, that makes sense. Otherwise it would just be useless gossip.” The wizarding world certainly didn’t need a second Witch Weekly.

“Nothing so exciting for me. I just need a signature authorizing the transport of a creature.”

Moira didn't give away any emotion at all, no hint that they hadn't spoken for a month, that they'd had a blow up, that they'd been nearly killed and tangled in the middle of a horrible triple murder or whatever that had been. Figaro was just beginning to piece together more of the story. That night had also strained his relationship with Kurby.

What she did give was the next piece of conversation. He often had to drag it out of her. It never really bothered him since he was happy to fill a silence and drag her kicking and screaming towards fun since they'd started becoming friends last summer, but now it was clear that system had broken down. So instead she was being .. was this Moira trying. Figaro would rather she was still mad at him. It would make it easier for him to stay mad at her.

"Like what?" he asked. The person in front of him moved forward a little so Figaro slid down the wall a bit more.

Moira took a step forward along with the rest of the line in front of her.

"A griffin," she replied simply.

Like unicorns, griffins were rare visitors at the menagerie ranch. It was an extremely rare opportunity, so Moira was grateful that she would still have time to help the other ranch hands with it. Once her week away taking care of the McBoid Farm was over, anyway. There would still be time for her to study it and learn as much as possible.

After all, not only did they have to get the authorization to transport the beast, they also had to provide proof that the handlers had enough skill to handle a griffin. As temperamental as the creatures were, an angry rampage was not an ideal scenario for the ranch or for the beast's well-being.

Moira gave a half shrug, looking back to Figaro again, "It's only for a couple weeks."

On the surface this was a totally normal exchange between Moira and Figaro, but Fig's heart wasn't in it. And more and more, Figaro was having to get used to discomfort and challenges to what he could cope with. His life hadn't been perfect up until now (he'd had trouble with school, fell out with friends, and having a parent in Azkaban would be hard for any family) but he'd led a somewhat sheltered life. But this year, it was more than he'd ever faced, especially this month and the thing at the Dumfriesshire safe house.  But here they were acting as if everything was the same. Figaro had never been so angry at someone before and here they were chatting about work.

He wiped his face, having a hard time putting it away but not sure what to do with it.

"Griffins are cool," he replied blandly.

Then he turned toward Moira with a resolved sigh. He couldn't stand it and never had he ever stopped words from brain to mouth.

"Look, I can't just pretend it didn't happen."

All thoughts regarding griffins, work, and the next week came to a grinding halt as Figaro turned to face her, bringing up the elephant standing between them.

Moira's gaze flickered over his face, taking a good look for a short moment before responding. Had something else happened this past month with the full moon's event? With his family? Something else? It was It wasn't as though she could ask and she wasn't sure she really wanted to. Not to say she didn't care. Undoubtedly he was still angry at her despite their polite, waiting line conversation and she imagined the banned topics he listed when he showed up to yell at her were still off limits.

Maybe she was still a little angry at him but that wouldn't do her, or anyone else, any good. It was in the past and while it did need to be cleared out, she was tired of thinking about the past.

"No, and I'm not asking you to."

It wasn't the kind of thing a person could pretend away although she did try to ignore it most of the time.

Talking to Moira was like talking to a tree. Figaro inhaled slowly through his nose. There was nothing. It was like Figaro had poured so much energy into his friendship with Moira and his boundless supply was spent. Since that night month ago now in Regents Park, he'd started to really wonder why they were even friends. Even the fight over New Year's what had he got from her? A blank look.

"Cool," he muttered, somewhat incredulous. "That's brilliant."

He took a step away, stepping out of the queue to take up some space in the hallway. The line was slowly moving along but Figaro felt suddenly stuck. Even with everything that had happened lately, this thing with Moira was this dangling thread. This stupid awkward appendage. And Moira, as always, just looked at him.

The witch in line ahead of him turned over her shoulder and scratched her nose to get a glimpse at the youth drama unfolding behind her, anything to pass the time.

"Yeah, that's good. Mad for it."

It was not good. He was not, in fact, mad for it.

Some language


Moira caught the eye of the woman who tried to sneakily look back at them as Figaro stepped away. She couldn't blame the witch for being bored and listening in, she supposed. Fig wasn't exactly quiet.

As before, he was bringing all this up in one of the shittiest places. Last time at least they could blame the logorrea. This time? No. Let's just admit to all of level four that things went to pot and put their personal matters up for public scrutiny.

Leaning back against the wall Fig had just vacated Moira shook her head. Bloody hell, what did he want from her? The answer was more. People always wanted more: money, time, answers, self-gratification, the list went on.

She had tried to talk to him, on her porch, back in December. She tried to explain. For her efforts, Figaro had basically insisted that she was a liar and a coward, not really listening to anything Moira said. Now in a public a queue he couldn't pretend they didn't have problems and ignore her. He couldn't say, 'Hey, we need to talk. Can we meet up somewhere later?'.

Moira didn't know if he was more willing to listen now or if he still just wanted her to say what he wanted to hear.

Glancing up she opened her mouth but closed it again before anything came out "You really hurt me," she almost said. Except it would just turn back on her. After all, it was all her fault. Right?

"Tha seo gòrach.[1] This isn't the place."

Moira inhaled, exhaled, and scooted forward with the rest of the line.

"And I don't want to start another fight." Really she hadn't started the first two but she could take the blame for that too.

1.	This is stupid.

For just a moment, Figaro thought he saw something cross Moira's mind. He thought she was going to say something. Well, she did say something and it wasn't an apology so whatever. The venue was apparently an issue. For Figaro anywhere was always the place. Privacy? Never heard of it.

In the gaping silence between Moira's statement and Figaro chewing on his lip, the nosy lady had a suggestion to offer.

     "Don't give up. You're such a cute couple. You know, if you're still fighting there's still a spark," she said with a sage and knowing smile-and-nod.

Figaro looked at the old lady then back at Moira, his arms crossed tight over his chest. This again. The two people least likely on this earth to be into one another and they'd never shake the implication. Might as well use it. Figaro plastered a crazed smile on his face.

"She's right, dear. We mustn't separate. What of the children?"

Deciding to endure the wrath of his editor instead of one more minute in the torture of this line, he took that opportunity to mosey away.