When: 2006
Where: Grand Association pour les Supérieurs Publications (GASP), Paris

It was one of magical publishing’s grandest events when media moguls from all over the world joined together to pat themselves on the back, chuckle at each other’s short-comings, and envy each other’s successes. They gave themselves awards and ate pungent cheeses and drank fine wine.

Barnabas Cuffe counted himself among the event’s most notable guests. While the Daily Prophet was by no means the largest or most illustrious publication in the world, his force of personality was enough to carry his reputation. He was dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket. His wild grey hair framed his balding head like a crown. On his arm was his handsome and glamorous wife Agatha Pendragon in luscious peacock.

He held a small group of Americans in thrall with some anecdote about how in his youth he’d all but stolen an entire printing press from a rival publisher.

“It’s a matter of drive, you understand. You’ve got to have the balls of a dragon. Balls of a fucking dragon!” he said and took a deep pull from a foul cigar.

“Balls of a dragon, hmmm.” Hank Flutterly, Editor for New York City’s Evening Babel, smirked across at Cuffe. “You must be talking about your prodigé, Barney. Now that’s a witch with balls of a dragon, bud. Great big hunking balls.”

Cuffe nodded and laughed not immediately catching onto Flutterly’s meaning. He had a great many employees who’d probably consider him a mentor and he gladly took credit for their success. But after a second or two he realized he wasn’t sure who Flutterly was talking about.

“Who’s that?” he asked, still smiling.

“Yes, Hank, dear, he’s got so many,” Agatha said in her rich voice that had won her so much fame on the Wizarding Wireless Network.

“Who’s that!?” Hank gasped, agawk. “Who’s that?! Oh no need to act so coy, Barney old boy! Queen G! That beauty courting Mervin Primbly over there. Bloody good job, you did there!”

Cuffe wrinkled his nose. Being out-of-the-know was a no-no. No one wanted to be a No Know let alone Britain’s most connected wizard.

“Who the bloody hell is Queen G,” he sniffed. Both he and Agatha looked over their shoulders. Standing next to a beanstalk of a man, the South African book publisher Primbly, was the back of some tarty witch. He didn’t immediately recognize her, not until she turned.

His eyes went wide. Agatha laid a hand on his arm and began to snicker behind her hand. It couldn’t be.

“Gamp…” he whispered. He slapped a smile on his face, but it came off as a painful wince. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said and wound his way through the crowd to investigate.

“Gamp,” he said more loudly as he approached, still not convinced it could possibly be the mousy good-for-nothing blunted-quill of a reporter he’d fired, oh, utterly decades ago.

Well, it was the mousy good-for-nothing blunted-quill of a reporter who’d quit on him exactly 3 years ago. Genevieve Garcia Gamp turned on her heel to come face to face with a brute of the past. She couldn’t very well call him a ghost; for while he was old, grey and coffin dodging, he was also loud, obnoxious and unpleasant.

It took a moment for Gen to get over her surprise at being approached. Only a moment; she’d expected he might appear. On his arm was Agatha Pendragon, his rather gorgeous and famous wife. But Gen wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she drew an equally fake grin onto her own painted expression.

“Mr Cuffe! What a wonderful surprise!” She glanced to Primly beside her, “Mervin, I take it you know Barney Cuffe? He edits the Daily Prophet. A great stepping stone to success, eh?”

A muscle under Cuffe’s eye sort of twitched, but then he understood. She was here as Mervin Primly’s date. How she’d caught the attention of anyone sophisticated and successful enough to be invited to the GASP Gala, he couldn’t divine, but it was the most likely scenario.

Agatha seemed to have made the same assumption. She offered her bejeweled hand to Mervin and Genevieve in turn.

“Agatha Pendragon. Enchanté. You must excuse Barnabas. He’s very rude,” she said.

Cuffe wrinkled his mouth suddenly feeling he’d left good company for worse.

Still smiling, Gen took Agatha’s hand with a firm shake of her own.

“Genevieve Garcia-Gamp. Pleasure.”

Agatha laughed. At her. At her husband. At the absurdity of what was unfolding.

“So lovely you could come,” she said. To Mervin she asked. “How on earth did you make this acquaintance.”

Gen, not exactly practiced at schooling her expression, raised an eyebrow as she withdrew her hand.

“Who wouldn’t want to know our up and coming star, Queen G?” Mervin shrugged and glanced at Cuffe. “I bet you’re kicking yourself now, Cuffe.”

Barnabas, who was becoming deeply uncomfortable by all of that, barked out a laugh. Rising star? He barely remembered her name! He would say she’d crashed and burned but you had to get off the ground before you could fall that far.

“You’re joking! Her?”

“Barnabas, darling,” Agatha chided, oh the shadenfreud of it all, “let’s hear it. I’m sure it’s a tale fit for a WWN special programme, especially after that book.”

Barnabas scowled. His wife was mocking him. The last thing he wanted was to stand here in sub-par company for another second. The chancellor of the International Confederation of Wizards was at the ice sculpture.

This sort of reaction to Gen was nothing new. Over the years, Gen had unfortunately become accustomed to being mocked and heckled. Hopefully, that would reduce now.

“Oh, it’s better than the WWN, Agatha.” She said, lifting her champagne to her lips. Beside her, Mervin Primly looked confused so she glanced sidewards to him. “It seems our supposed top newsman in the UK has missed a trick. Doesn’t say much for the Daily Prophet, does it, Mervin darling?”

“Clearly not, Gen. Clearly not. Perhaps we should put them out of their misery?”

Barnabas had returned to scoffing.

“Allow me,” he said and offered his elbow to Agatha. He could end their misery immediately and be on their way. If he was subject of gossip, all the better. Any news was good news, as the saying goes. With that, he began to lead themselves towards the ice sculpture which was of, for some reason, a squid wrapped in battle with a lion.

Out of nowhere, Gen suddenly let out a loud laugh.

“The rudeness, Mervin!” She guffawed loud enough for the retreating old wizard and his wife to hear. “Exactly the reason his staff are fleeing to me instead! No wonder they couldn’t wait to quit from the old crust bucket.”

Cuffe stopped. Then somehow, he stopped again. Then he turned slowly. An owl from his assistant had found him at a cafe earlier that morning with news that two of his writers had tendered resignations. Their leaving letters had been boilerplate. They’d been no big loss, he barely knew who they were. One of them covered culture and the local London happenings, but the other was on the business beat.

He stalked back over to hiss at her. “You claim … my reporters …” he spoke slowly as if the concept tasted bad in his mouth. “... are working … for you.”

Agatha had hung back. A caterer had come by and she’d found a fluke of champagne.

Cuffe’s nostrils flared. “Not &#0@’ing likely.”

There it was. The Queen was grinning before she took another sip of champagne.

“I don’t claim, Barney, dear. They’re on my payroll. Could barely wait for me to take over before jumping from your crusty old ship. You know, to my anthill.”

Cuffe drew back. He seemed to cycle through a few emotions in quick sequence. Disgust, grief, disdain, and then anger.

“The Witch Weekly!” he spat. “Your ant hill! Don’t tell me they’ve let you out of whatever pathetic corner they shoved you? Typical of that rag. Bottom of the barrel. Pah!”

“I say!” Primly objected mildly, enjoying the scandal.

Barnabas Cuffe was mean. Gen had spent years growing accustomed to it, especially in the time after her husband’s arrest. Now that she’d not had to listen to it for years, this meanness was somewhat a novelty at an otherwise pleasant evening of networking.

A passing waiter offered fresh drinks, and Gen replaced her own, taking up two to offer one to Barney.

“From the bottom of the barrel to Queen of the anthill!”

Beside her, Primly raised his glass in a toast.

“I’ll drink to that Queen G, your majesty.”

Barnabas sputtered. It was true! It wasn’t clear to him why it upset him so. The Witch Weekly was merely a gnat. A silly magazine for silly girls. And Genevieve Garcia-Gamp had been a sad little nothing who’d tried and failed to hack it. He ought not have ever given her a second thought. He’d kicked her to the curb. She wasn’t supposed to be happy. She didn’t cow at his abuse. Instead she laughed, young and glamorous and blithe.

“I congratulate you,” he said. “The Weekly is about to be come the worst publication in Britain. It takes more than scandal and a smile to succeed in this world, Gamp. Don’t smug. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you and for me it’s Tuesday.”

“Barnabas, don’t be a pisspot. It’s sweet. She’s done so well. Without you,” Agatha said coming up alongside her husband again. Her teasing was tinged now with disdain of ‘Queen G’ who dared. She was nothing grasping at something and it was undignified.

“It’s a relief you’re not so senile you’ve forgotten the day of the week, Barney, dear. The Witch Weekly is about to do better than it's ever done.” Gen raised her glass once more, “To success in the face of old crusty tyrants with bad breath!” She paused, fiddling with her earring for a moment. “You’ll be hearing a lot about Queen G in the months to come. Great nickname isn’t it? You inspired it. Helped me become media royalty.”