“The heartbreak healer.” Queen G was seated at her desk, flicking through a few letters from various companied hoping for some advertising space on the pages of Witch Weekly. She had three piles in front of her. ‘Unread’, ‘maybe’, and ‘not unless we are desperate for sickles.’ What teenaged witch wanted to be faced with an advert for wart removal cream when they were checking out the latest dress trends?

“You could’ve owled. I like an owl. It’s understated, helpful, allows me to say not to bother me on a Friday. A Friday. You do know what we do on a Friday, Sandy?” Of course, he knew what they did on a Friday. It was, Gen supposed, why he’d shown up unannounced. It was an odd relationship between Sandy Misslethorpe and Queen G. He wasn’t so much a boss, as he didn’t have any real say in what she put to print. Gen had full editorial control. He liked to have some input occasionally, and she allowed it for ease of her life. Besides, Gen liked Sandy, he had always been a plain shooter with her. He also often brought expensive wines with him to their regular Winery.

Dark eyes left the letter in her hands, but found his hands first before she looked up.
“No wine.”

"It has only just gone ten o'clock." Said Sandy. "If you need wine this early on a Friday then I know a good healer to treat that."

Gen would think he was joking. Meant himself. He did not. "The complaints were not that bad." The first Wednesday of every month was the Winery. It was the time they discussed the complaints. One bottle for a good month. Two for a bad one.

Gen would be lying if she agreed that 10 in the morning was too early for her to have ever had a drink. With the broomcrash that her personal life had been since she was 27 and her soulmate had been carted off to Azkaban leaving her pregnant and very poor. Of course, she’d not turned to drink then, but who could blame her for a hair of the dog throughout the years? In truth, Gen didn’t think too much on what Sandy might think about her because it hardly mattered as long as she did her job. She knew that ye knew that she was a broomcrash.

“I’m not an alcoholic, Sandy. Merlin knows I deserve to be, though.” Gen put another letter on the No way pile before looking back up to him.
“What brings you to darken my door? It’s a Friday. Print day.”
As if on cue, outside the office door, there were several loud bangs and Genny saw through the window, smoke billowing up and through the bullpen.
“&@!£!” She pushed up from her chair and quickly moved around the desk and out of her office to see where the commotion was coming from.
At the far side of the office was the printing press, a great big hulking machine magically enchanted to throw out thousands of copies of their weekly magazine. It never failed. Today, there was smoke billowing from it had stopped moving.
“&@!£!” Gen repeated.

"A premonition." Said Sandy. Grim featured. The reliable printing press was smoking. Purple and grey smoke. Nothing gave off that without a magical motive. Colorful pages half printed spewed upwards then folded in on themselves. Like a paper octopus. The horror was magnificent. For half a second. Before it looked like a big pile of galleons going up in smoke instead.

"Shut it down!" Sandy bellowed. Uncharacteristically for him. The printing staff threw spells. The machine shuddered. Groaned. Clunked. Threw up a mushroom cloud of green smoke.

And.

Exhaled.

The cogs stopped. Paper floated down from the ceiling. The Witch Weekly office was silent as a corpse. It might as well be if the magazine did not print today...