With the proper lunch hour well behind them, the last of the back-to-work procrastinators had finally returned to their desks to finish out the day.[1]  A few had cast curious glances at the young man sitting at the furthest table.  The expressions ranged from curious confusion to smug knowing as they either tried to place who he was or predict what his reprimand would be for returning late from break. 

The face he'd chosen[2] was non-descript business enough that he blended in with the non-artistic crew at the newspaper.  Cinaed took another bite of his roast beef sandwich and turned a page of the most recent Daily Prophet, enjoying a bit of quiet while waiting. 

At some point, once the intrepid reporter returned to her desk after her lunch break (and whatever distractions she found along the way), she'd find a note inviting her to speak with a key informant.  It wasn't a lie, as such.  But the truth was probably not what she was expecting.  Hopefully, it wouldn't take her too long - he only had about 45 minutes before the polyjuice would start to wear off. 

Shortly after he'd finished reading the feel-good piece about Lani the elf getting recognized for saving a pet pigeon, the door to the roof opened Niobe stepped out into the afternoon sunlight.  Cinaed lifted a slender wrist and waved her over. 

"Crisps?" he offered, sliding the just-opened bag towards the center of the table.  "I take it the offer for some insight into the WBA's next plan piqued your interest?"

1.	Title source
2.	Polyjuice-de-jour

19 April 2012
Thursday @1:35 pm
The roof, Daily Prophet

It had begun to drizzle ever so slightly, just infrequent pricks of moisture that seemed to hang in the air instead of fall, but the warmth of spring had arrived in London and people were beginning to shed their outerwear.

Niobe arrived up on the roof, drawing a cigarette from her pocket on her way. She'd use her wand to light it.

The note was odd but not suspicious - it was the location that made it strange, but Niobe didn't shy from a tip, especially about the Wizarding Blood Alliance. She'd get her answers first, verify after. Pull in other resources as needed. Every tip was a long shot, but Niobe hadn't gotten to where she was - crime and politics lead journo - without being dogged.

"Oh, properly piqued," Niobe said after her first draw from the cigarette. She sat down and reached for the offered chips. It set people at ease, to have a small gift accepted, even something so small as a salty crisp or two. She waited to pull out her notebook.

"What should I call you?" she asked. "You know who I am."

The wizard (she assumed) was completely unfamiliar, dressed like any other Londoner who had one foot in the magical world and one foot in the muggle. Niobe was more the former, though far from traditional. Not caught in a hat, but her jacket hemlines were longer than common. With this contact, she'd start conversational, friendly without being gushing, a little bit aloof. Interested, but not desperate. He'd come to her, after all. He wanted to share.

Cinaed grinned jovially when Niobe took the proferred crisps, the youthful stubble on his chin itching slightly.  A flick of his wand summoned a multi-colored shimmering beach umbrella as the drizzle threatened to sully the lovely lunch. 

"Oh yes, of course.  How discourteous of me; I do seem to have the advantage of acquaintance here."  He made a show of brushing any crumbs from his fingers before extending his hand to the young woman, intent on giving her a firm handshake that was more fitting for a man of Cinaed's usual stature . If she rejected the gesture - well, then, Cinaed would just have to give a little apologetic nod before diverting his hand back to his meal. 

"Bellinsworth.  Marcus Bellinsworth, at your service."  According to the papers in his wallet, the real Marcus Bellinsworth was a tourist from some American town called Boise where he peddled in racing broom insurance.  His absence wouldn't be noticed for at least another week. 

Cinaed munched on another chip before pointing a salty finger at Niobe.  "I'm in town visiting and, on a fellow's unfortunate recommendation, found myself drinking among some very questionable companions.  They were going on about games involving werewolves.  Word on the street was you might have some use of such information."

"If you have the time, that is."

Something was off, but Niobe wasn't skittish. Oh, she took the handshake, had a seat under the silly umbrella, and lazily brought out her notes and special black quill.

"I've got the time. The Daily Prophet is always accepting tips from our readers," Niobe said nicely. She absently touched the thumb of her left finger to the space where her ring finger used to be.

"The werewolf games, though, them's old news, Marcus," she said without being mean. "Ira Almasy's dead. So, where were you drinking now?"

The Verbatis quill stopped scratching in the space between Niobe's question and Marcus's answer. She rather wondered who had given Marcus Bellinsworth her name but not have given her a head's up, but again, Niobe was not skittish.

Cinaed was hardly a natural actor.  Oh - he had the capabilities of amplifying his native charisma and charm when circumstances dictated it but assuming the persona of an entirely different bloke was a hard-learned skill.  The Cinaed trapped inside broom-salesman wanted to chortle and shake his head in bemusement at the notion of werewolf games being simply a page in history.  There was a significant limit to Marcus' knowledge which set restrictions on his smugness.

Humility was hard. 

"Oh.  Well, you would know more about such things than I.  All I know is what I overheard - and there was definitely excited chatter about an upcoming event."  He hitched up the puny shoulders in a dismissive I'm sure you know best shrug. "The bloke I spoke with seemed pretty adamant about it.  Though, perhaps, it's still old news.  Perhaps I'm wasting your time."

Another quick shrug.  "Some little pub up on the northern coast - near Inverness?  The Sunken Siren, I believe they called it."  Cinaed munched briefly on a crisp. 

The quill scribbled away, more eager and accepting of Marcus's testimonial than Niobe. He seemed genuine enough, not pushy. Something was off though.

This is the kind of thing could be handled over owl, not a shady rooftop meeting. Niobe was sure there was something else.

"Not at all," Niobe said, waving off his own self dismissal. "Shocking anyone would be speaking about something like that so loudly. Who did you say sent you my way?" Niobe asked, reaching for another crisp. She'd never heard of this Sunken Siren place, but she was rarely in Scotland.

Cinaed pretended to ponder Niobe's question for a moment, a crisp held lightly between two fingers.  "Sent might not be the precise word," Cinaed admitted tapping the crisp on its brown paper container for several beats.  "Your name floated up a couple times in the conversation.  I knew the name felt vaguely familiar but ..." He ate the chip, feigning buying time to consider his thoughts. 

"You know when you hear a name and you know you've encountered it before but you can't say if it's even from a real person or from a song or novel?  But, on that less-than-reliable recommendation, I was there reading the Prophet in a questionable pub.  Voila - right there on the page.  Niobe Thursby.  I asked the locals and wham bam, here I am." 

This whole broom salesman shtick really wasn't sitting well.  It was a shame he'd had to abandon the French flobberworm farmer. 

"You'd know better than I if it was shocking.  Either way - they seemed quite at home in that place.  Looked like an old hairy bows version of students at the Three Broomsticks."

This was shaping up to be one of the stranger tips Niobe had received entirely owing its delivery, not the content. The Verbatis Quill didn't care, scraping away every unhelpful and vague utterance of Marcus Bellinsworth. Niobe crossed a leg over the other, getting more comfortable at the table.

Then, the way he said her name, it reminded her of something. The witch looked at him sideways a minute, choosing not to conceal a flash of suspicion, only temper it with a smile.

"Are you sure we haven't met?"

The question carried with it a gentle accusation, or another way an opportunity to come clean.