A new tide was turning in Dazmond's life, an almost-ripe changeling she'd grown pleasantly accustomed to – a distinct feeling of difference and possibility was in the air.  She thought along the lines of, Oh... yes and, What if....

It was morning in Southwark, and that was where she was – perched on the roof of an old building among birds and the rising sun's glow.  She huddled over a mug of Turkish coffee with fifteen issues of the Daily Prophet spread before her.  Dazmond was doing research.  In each gathering of parchment, specific articles were marked out, all bearing the name of the talented Niobe Thursby.

How interesting it was that this woman seemed to be getting the dirt on not just one, but two of Dazmond's kin.  Now Greyfriar was by no means blood, but for one reason or another Dazmond did adore him; for a Professor of less than needful things, he did make a bold impression.  Somewhere beyond the sarcasm and dry wit that existed between them, Daz believed and always had that somehow Greyfriar was something of a pet of hers.  It was a subtle knowledge she had and truly cocky, but nevertheless his appearance under Thursby's title hit a snag in her squirrelly mind.  Instantly she'd sprung on sight of both names, their curious co-mingling troublesome.

Niobe Thursby had of course published the recent and less-than-flattering article on her brother's latest foul, tempting all snot-nosed hissies in Britain to open their maws and claim he ought to be behind bars.  That his 'Second Chance' was over and done with.  Dazmond didn't know how many times her elder brother and only sibling had come to her rescue with that aggression of his.  As far as she was concerned, it was a very useful gift, not a hazard or a nuisance.  Mills had lived to tell the tale; hadn't he?  Probably a bit of scarring but not a lot that a little liquid doses wouldn't cover up.  Let a man have his violence, she thought.  Let me let a man have his violence, she thought.  Who's doing the rescuing now, she thought.... 

But since this instance of curiosity came about, Dazmond had taken to acquiring as many Prophets as she could.  She was even giving discounts now to customers who were willing to part with old copies of the paper.  Dazmond didn't usually go hoarding things or squirrelling things away like this, but for loud-mouthed Niobe Thursby – oh, she could make the exception all right.  The more she read the more Dazmond wanted to know about the Witch.  She had dibs, after all, on all the stories that were of interest to Dazmond, from her brother's questionable sanity to Greyfriar's mysterious resignation and finally to the Runespoor sightings and smuggling busts of the month prior.  On top of all this she gave a sickeningly high opinion of the snobby snot-nosed kid, Kyle Gibson, who Dazmond loathed more and more as time went on; to mark him out as a danger to Wizarding society was the greatest laugh she'd had in a while (or perhaps just since the intoxicated blur of the remembrance week's celebrations, but no less). 

As she poured over the words of her latest obsession that morning, having nowhere to be and no one to answer to on this estranged rooftop in the morning sun, Dazmond had the weightless spirit of a doubtless winner, the playful glint of mischief in her eyes, and a sly smile accompanying the pointed flick of her cigarette as she exhaled with certainty.  A plan was brewing and she was sure it was going to be riotously fun.  A completely new take on poisonous company. 


Several days later, Dazmond wore a sleek black robe and her usual Victorian lace-up boots.  Inconspicuous and casual, she loitered round the corner of the Daily Prophet headquarters flipping coins and window shopping and taking the occasional break from light assuredness to sneer at a passing child.  The day was yet young but Dazmond was sure the Witch would be round soon; she'd gathered just enough information to know the likeliest time to catch sight of the lass coming out for a round of snooping and turning over the great mysteries of the world.  Not wanting to attract attention, Dazmond sometimes wandered away from the building by a ways, never venturing out of eye-shot however, and always with a hawk's eye view of the surroundings. 

Niobe Thursby emerged from the stately Daily Prophet headquarters, her nose in her notes, her fuzzy locks of hair tied back away from her face with a colorful scarf.   She was on her way to the Ministry for a follow up on new personnel in the Auror force.  It wasn't big news, but Niobe was the sort of reporter who could smell something important in just about anything.  If anything, it was just another touch with a big Department.

And then she felt it.  All over goosebumps! She stopped suddenly on the street and looked around - it was full summer and actually a bit warm.  But the feeling of cold dread was over-whelming!  An evil eye! The thought occurred to her and she began turning in circles, looking for whoever might be the source of the dark feeling.

Then she spotted her: there was a dark haired witch across the street, standing in a doorway.  And glaring at her.

Niobe steeled herself and glowered back. In a blink, she spun on her heel and Apparated.

CRACK!

Niobe was in her face. "Are you following me?" she demanded, "Who are you? And why are you looking at me like that.  I've got goosebumps!" Her declaration was accusatory, goosebumps being a sure symptom of the evil eye passing over you.

Dazmond couldn't help the contortion of her features into a deadly glare upon catching sight of the Witch; it happened almost immediately, the recognition of the unmistakable locks (which she was a fan of, which made it all the worse), and the proud gait she saw, the nerve....  Perhaps there was something more behind the obsession, the almost unjustified hatred, for Daz's emotions ran loose with the first sighting and a bit of uncontrolled magic unleashed itself -- giving her away at once.

Damage hardly had time to be done as Dazmond found herself much closer than she preferred straight away.  It was then that Dazmond knew she had met her match, and a wave of justified superiority and competition welled up in her.  It was marrowing, and she struggled to regain her composure.  She decided whilst burrowing herself into the woman's interrogative eyes that she should play at her curiosity, even as something shuffled beneath her skin and she had the childish urge to name-call.

Following an extended moment, she smiled.  It was a less than friendly smile, somehow carrying an awful load of resistance, a bit of wickedness as though she had known something that the other Witch could scarcely even dream of.  Dazmond's eyes then darted across the woman's face and she fell back a step energy-wise, letting a bit of air pass between them.

“You are... a reporter for the Daily, right,” she asked.  “I've done my research, Ms. Thursby, and I happen to believe you to be the most qualified in your field.  The exposure of the most vile instances and associations....”  A weight fixed itself on her brow, her eyes fixated, their proximity weighted in intensity.  She fancied keeping the Witch in the dark, just enough light shining through to keep her interested. 

Suddenly Dazmond drew up.  “I'm not sure you can be of assistance to me,” she said.  “But I do hope you'll excuse my intensity.  The unintended magics, I –"  Her eyes slithered back to the Witch's robes, hopeful for the spell of  intrigue to pass between them.  Again, her eyes awash with passion, she let a helping of fear promote the connection, the snare.  Unknowing that her vibrations would alert the Witch so soon, she hadn't helped herself to any potions and was so relying on wit alone.  Glancing about like a girl on the loose she said, “I should be on my way.”  Nervous laughter tinged her following words.  “I don't know what I was thinking,” she said.  “It's much too dark -- and how could you possibly, how could you possibly --”  she turned abruptly to leave.  “Good-day, Ms. Thursby.  I'm so sorry for the disturbance!”

Dazmond quickened her pace in the opposite direction, the sound of distanced bells following her every step.  Come on, little bug, she thought.  Sweet insect, come on.

Niobe could now take in the dark little witch in full.  Heavy black hair with reds and other hues and beads.  Big, dark eyes, gleaming with intensity.  But as soon as she was in proximity, her goosebumps disappeared and the little witch started talking.

She was agitated, desperate, plaintive almost.  Her emotions kept changing and Niobe couldn't quite land on what the woman was feeling.  But the bold, curious Niobe was intrigued. Solidly, wholly intrigued.  Perhaps it was an ego trip to be so fervently sought out.  Perhaps it was the mystery around a request unrevealed.  But Niobe had to know what this was about!

Then suddenly, the witch turned to leave.  "Wait!" Niobe reached out for her, tender and just as earnest now.

"If you've found out as much about me as you say, you might have known I'm not squeamish. I'm no wand-hand, but I'll pursue the truth hot if it's there to be found."

She tried to get eye contact.  "What's to lose to try?"