“She got called away, you know what it’s like. Healer’s schedules!” Madam Snardworthy smiled apologetically at the pair stood in front of her desk.

“Is she likely to be long?”

“I really couldn’t say, Ms Ballentyne. I do apologise. Let’s see if we can reorganise…” the personal assistant to the Head Healer started to open a leather bound diary as Bruce Ballentyne glanced sideward to her colleague. This wasn’t the first time they’d rearranged to get in with this elusive witch who always seemed to be called away.

“It’s fine, we’ll wait.” She wasn’t going to be coming back a third time only to be stood up again. Gamp would oblige, insipid people pleaser that he seemed to be.

“Oh ah…very well.” Clearly Snardworthy hadn’t expected that. “Well, take a seat. I’ll get you some drinks. And perhaps a sandwich.” Who knew how long they’d be waiting for Healer Storm. With a flurry, the older witch left the small office.
There was one seat against the wall for anyone awaiting an appointment in the larger office next door. Iona glanced at it but made no move to sit for a moment. Where they sit on one another’s lap?

Instead, she looked up and across at the slightly taller wizard with his floppy dark hair.
“I’m getting the distinct feeling Healer Storm is standing us up on purpose. Are you in her bad books, Gamp?” She’d never met the Healer, herself.

No surprise that the Head Healer had once again found something more important to do than meet members of the Ministry. Well, Cepheus supposed, there were lives to be saved here. That was a rather good excuse if any was needed. But this was the second in a row, and as a result, had not met Bruce at all. Things were already slipping, and the Head Healer was already looking like she was avoiding Ministry cooperation.

Bruce would hardly hold back if he suggested to intervene, so it was easier to let her protest to Snardworthy, the Head Healer’s assistant. The Werewolf Wing Head opted for them to stay put and wait, which surprised both the assistant and the Being Division Head. He hadn’t expected to see patience from Bruce, or was it stubborn persistence?

“I’m getting the distinct feeling Healer Storm is standing us up on purpose.” Bruce had turned towards a chair positioned by the door to the aforementioned leader’s office, but hadn’t made a move to it. “Are you in her bad books, Gamp?”

“Maybe.” Cepheus replied flatly, trying not to think too clearly of the events of Valentine’s Day. His auror sister, Andromeda, fighting a wall, their mother impersonating the Deputy Head Healer once she’d knocked him out and hidden him in a cupboard. The umbrellas… no, it did not do well to dwell on last month. He very much wanted to put it behind him at last. Bruce’s comment might have been innocently made but it might also have been barbed.

“I rather got the impression I was in your bad books the other night,” he added, slipping his hands into his pockets, attempting to look casual about the whole exchange. There’d been alcohol, as ever with Creatures gatherings, and Bruce had called him Splinters. When he’d asked what she meant, they’d got interrupted and it had hung for the weekend.

“Maybe.” Unsurprisingly, Splinters was even on the fence with his answer to this sarcastic question.

The ‘maybe’ earned itself a raise of the eyebrows as the redhead leant her cane against the desk and started to pull off her jacket. Perhaps her question was poorly timed and badly executed after the drama with him in the paper at St Mungo’s the preceding month. Maybe Gamp was actually in Storm’s bad books.

“I rather got the impression I was in your bad books the other night,”

Well this was a surprise. Bruce suddenly couldn’t hide the small smile starting to appear. Did Gamp actually address something awkward?
“Well, you’re not really in any of my books.” She said with a small shrug. He just didn’t seem remarkable enough to really spend much time thinking about, in all honesty. That would be perhaps too harsh to say, though, wouldn’t it?

For a moment, Bruce tried to rack her brains as to why he’d think bad books, but she was coming up empty. Well, until she remembered him wondering about the name she’d used. That was when Bruce grinned.

“Splinters.” Was that was bothered him?

“Yes. Splinters.” Cepheus replied, a flatness to his tone. There was little movement on his part, but his eyes followed Bruce. At least she’d not been using it across the office at him. His assistant’s nosey personality would have caused him to hear it before now if it was in regular use. Then again, Bruce probably didn’t talk about him. Why would anyone talk about him other than to gossip about the other Gamps?

“I don’t expect to be in any of your books.” Cepheus added, sliding one foot out to stand a little more comfortably and confidently. “So I don’t understand why you’d nickname me.”

He had been full of alcohol and much bolder in asking the other night, and in a way he wished he’d had a bit more and not remembered it at all. From what he had got to know of Bruce, she seemed a bit too keen to rub people in the Department the other way. She’d come back to work and was hell-bent on trying to prove herself, to the point of being territorial. Normally Bagnold and the other awkward characters in the WCU did enough of that without their Division Head joining in. Didn’t she find it exhausting to hold an opinion about everything, especially when it had nothing to do with her Division?

Gamp didn’t understand why she’d give him a nickname. Unsure whether this meant he wanted to know why, Bruce lowered herself into the only visitor’s chair in the small office, stretching her legs out.

“Honestly, it just seems to fit.” She said with a shrug before folding her arms. “Obviously, we don’t know each other all that well but, from early impressions, you sit on the fence.” It was an opinion that had only been formed through a few encounters. She was sure Gamp was probably a perfectly fine individual outside of the workplace. Unfortunately, one of their main encounters included when Penelope Pickler had been sobbing like an idiot over Bruce’s unwillingness to participate in one of her presentations on equality within the department.

“One gets splinters in their arse if they straddle a fence for too long.” Was it offensive? Probably, but not intentionally. “There’s no offence meant. No bad books. It’s just…” she wasn’t doing particularly well at explaining herself. So she gave another shrug, “I’ve never had splinters.”

“… from early impressions, you sit on the fence. One gets splinters in their arse if they straddle a fence for too long.”

Cepheus studied his fellow middle manager as she explained.

“It is possible to hold opinions without expressing them,” he shot back quietly, right hand emerging from his pocket to gesture palm uppermost. “Most Department meetings are a competition as to who can have the loudest opinion on whatever’s discussed, whereas I believe personal opinion should be superseded by evidence in many cases.”

“Listening, and understanding the opposing viewpoints is of greater value than jumping straight in with your own opinion when you’re trying to work with Beings.” His fingers danced with his words. “Not to suggest in any way I wish to silence your right to voice your opinion at said meetings, Ballentyne,” he leaned over towards her briefly, “But I don’t go in for that method.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

It didn’t mean he didn’t hold opinions and choose sides when it mattered. But once Bruce, Balfour and Fournier had jumped in to argue over most things, it was more important to get something resolved than prolong the debate.

Her cane resting against the arm of the chair, Iona stretched her leg out and crossed her arms over her chest. Gamp felt the need to defend his splinters, and that was fine. He was entitled to disagree with her as much as he liked. He was also entitled to think that his own approach to handling meetings was the best. He was, after all, one of 3 pureblood wizards in the leadership of Level 4. He was also not a werewolf.

“I can imagine you’ve never needed to.” Bruce shrugged nonchalantly.  Maybe Gamp didn’t have the manor and the galleons behind him, but he certainly had the pureblood ancestry and the fact that he was a wizard in a wizard dominated department. Iona anticipated that he’d probably not had to fight to be heard while she’d had to prove herself at every juncture in her career, and now she was having to prove herself like she’d never had to before. So yes, she was going to give her opinion when she strongly believed something.

“So, what would you stand up for, Gamp? If it’s not the rights of wixes being lured in by vampires wanting a feast, what brings you down off your fence?” It wasn’t Bruce’s intention to incite any debate or cause any tension between herself and Gamp. The nickname had been mentioned after enough cheap white wine to loosen her tongue, and as he’d asked, she was interested.
“Look,” she sighed, “I’ve spent a career really knowing who I work with. That’s how the capture unit works because it has to. And, I don’t know what you stand for.”

Ceph exhaled quietly, and stared off above Ballentyne’s head, at a piece of art hanging in the office anteroom. It was thankfully a scene without enchanted subjects, or the occupants had wandered off. He shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned.

“I stand for not being so quick to judge, or raise a wand” he replied in a quieter tone, lips pressed together. He drew a quick breath, hands balling in his pockets. “I stand for the rights of every being in our boundaries, whether I agree with them or not.”

One hand made it out of his pocket, held stiff before him, drawing out a timeline in the air before him as he spoke: “Last week I stood for a centaur herd, against wixes hunting illegally on their territory, first thing this morning for a house elf whose owner had done unspeakable things to her, and yes, I stand for vampires whose food source is strictly rationed by the government, and vulnerable to interference.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking to the door in hope that the Head Healer or her secretary might materialise. “…and I stand for your freedom to access wolfsbane and a saferoom of your choice at full moon.” His hands upturned as if throwing the topic back to Ballentyne and deflated. “I think you’ll probably have enough time to write me a questionnaire before this meeting.”

‘Oh, here we go,’ Bruce thought, not giving much consideration to the fact that she’d asked for Gamp’s speech about his principles. His point? He stood for the beings that couldn’t stand for themselves. Yadda yadda, poor vampires being unable to legally drink humans dry. Bruce pressed her lips together, all too aware that she really was taking what she wanted to hear from Gamp and not what he was really saying. She was sure he was a nice wizard, he just didn’t really seem to be her cup of tea.

“I didn’t have a choice, Gamp,” Iona replied, raising her eyebrows. “Most vampires did.” Despite herself, the witch knew that this wasn’t a fight worth having right now. Gamp had brought up the nickname and she’d simply explained it. Maybe she was quick to judge but it hadn’t served her too badly in her lifetime.

After a moment, Bruce shrugged her shoulders. “So maybe you’re not permanently straddling the fence. I was just going off impressions so far.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Gamp. Most vampires did.”
“Oh really?” He heard himself reply, “On what statistics do you base your claim?”

It was the voice of first choice - and he never ordinarily went with his first choice of what to do in a situation. It was far more rash, and Cepheus didn’t do rash. He did thoughtful. Or he made sure he did thoughtful. Now he was just irritated. That wouldn’t do.

“So maybe you’re not permanently straddling the fence. I was just going off impressions so far.”

“Hm.” Cepheus replied, forcing himself not to say his first conjured response. “I refer you to my earlier point about holding opinions without expressing them, Ballentyne.” If he had been a cat his fur might have risen up on his back at that very moment, only to smooth down a moment later. She wanted a fight, or to provoke a reaction. That’s what she enjoyed about their Department. He didn’t have to play that game - it was tiring and it wasn’t the way he did things.

“Perhaps we could try her Deputy, Misslethorpe,” he changed subject, remembering himself. “I’m pretty sure he’s back[1] to himself.” He shoved his hands back into his pockets, with a hint of a scowl.

1.	February 14th 2012 Praise the Catastrophe [Act II]