"Of course they don't."  Nicholas said with a huff.  "I think I'm offended on behalf of my mother."  He was pretty sure muggle fiction put wixes in a much better—if still inaccurate—light than wix fiction put muggles. It was one of the ways he differed from some other obliviators, many of them were all to happy to leave muggles with holes in their memory, where Nicholas hated doing that.

He'd never thought to wonder if his mum had had her memory modified. Merlin knows the department loves paperwork, maybe he could find out.

"Yeah, I'll take another."  He accepted the open bottle from Fig only to choke when Fig described his weekend again.

Fig was being Fig, right?  Nicholas hadn't screwed up that badly, surely. "You're taking the piss, right?"  He asked once he could breath again.

"No, I know!" Fig knew that his story sounded crazy. He couldn't tell you how it had come about, if pressed, but the details of the match and the aftermath were clear as day. "But it's true. I told them they had to play like their lives depended on it. Wiedman was in top form, I can't even describe. Blagging call got missed, we managed the Snitch. It was incredible. Nothing like it. I don't know if they'll have me back, but bucket list shit."

He seemed elated, like he was still riding the high of what had happened. He leaned against the balcony railing and drank from his bottle.

"I get can get us into the locker room, if you wanted to meet the guys," he offered.

"I..." Nicholas wasn't sure what to do.  Either Fig was taking the piss for Nicholas's screw up.  Assuming it was a screw up and it wasn't just Fig taking the piss from the start.  Or he'd broken Fig. If that was the case, well it'd take time for anyone to notice anything out of the ordinary.  Which left him with playing along for now.  He just wished his body would be completely on board with that rather than trying to have a panic attack.

"I'm dati—I dated a quidditch player.  I don't need to go into any more locker rooms." One locker room was much the same as any, and they were all gross.  And he'd met a fair share of players already. He laughed at himself.  And Fig did not coach anyone ever.  If he wasn't careful he'd end thinking this was real.

"I'm not sure why they had you in the first place though. And before the season even started. So weird."

Nicholas was agitated about something and Figaro thought he should know why. He spoke without thinking often and - oh! Bevans had broken up with Peyton, and how Fig was going on about hot Quidditch lads and locker rooms. Bad form, mate. Rotten of you.

"Yeah, so weird," Figaro responded to whatever Nicholas had just said, thinking about Peyton instead. He had to make it up to him. He had to -

"Aw, fuck!" Figaro made a face all of a sudden, swearing more colorfully than he normally did (because he was a sweetie).

"It didn't happen, did it? Balls, Bevans ... that would've been brilliant."

Go along with it.  That was the mantra going through Nicholas's head at the moment.  And he was about to do just that when Fig seemingly remembered what was going on again.  He still suspected his friend was messing with him.

"Nope."  Nicholas said simply.  "I don't know that it would have been brilliant.  Coaches generally know what they are doing."  The only way this scenario was happening was as a story in Fig's mind placed there by a idiot obliviator who felt like showing off and had had enough to do it.  How did the Ministry allow casting under the influence.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" Because the alternative wasn't an option that Nicholas wanted to deal with.

"Wait, you think I did this?" Figaro asked, confused, gesturing at himself. He barked a laugh. "I mean, hard to say. It sounds like me, but it also sounds like you."

The memory of the match, each time Figaro tried to access it, was there and then it wasn't. It was like when you forgot what you were going to say, then had it, then forgot again. He scratched the back of his head in a look that screamed 'clever problem-solver'.

He drank from his beer, wiped his mouth and pointed accusingly. "No no no, it was you. You're the fancy Obliviator who wears robes to work. Better not have broke my brain, Bevans."

Ugh. Fig. Nicholas loved his friends.  But sometimes he wondered what it would be like to move to the U.S. and never have to see any of them again.

"I think you are just messing with me."  Or so he really hoped.  That was the best answer as far as Nicholas was concerned. "How could I break something that was already broken?"  But Fig was right, Nicholas was the obliviator.  And he was an idiot.

"In my professional opinion," a professional idiot, "you will be fine."

"Just refrain from making any big decisions over the next few days.  Are you allowed to make big decisions on your own?" Why were any of them allowed to make decisions? Muggles their age couldn't even rent a car. They were allowed to use wands.

"Bevans thinks I'm going to be fine!" Figaro said too loud for the balcony. He put his hand to his stomach and raised his bottle in the air. "S'alright everyone, brain doctor in the house! Unclench!"

He plopped back down in the chair, satisfied he'd sufficiently deflected all the funny jokes about how smart he was.

"It's fine. I'll just go to St. Mungo's and tell them my Obliviator friend took my memory off me."

It was an empty threat, of course. He'd sooner be the sweet young lad and dance off to his parents for a pat and a potion than he'd go to the hospital. He put his feed up on the balcony railing again. They had Auror friends, Obliviator friends, Quidditch player friends, but no Healer friends. How had none of them gone on to be Healers?

Nicholas hid his face in his hands, if Fig got them in trouble with their neighbors, he'd find out just what Nicholas could do to his brain. "Quiet. Before you piss off someone."

"It's fine. I'll just go to St. Mungo's and tell them my Obliviator friend took my memory off me."

"What makes you think I'd let you go to St. Mungo's knowing I did anything at all?"  It was not a threat in the same way that Fig obviously wasn't about to go to St. Mungo's.  Though it did make him wonder, how many times an obliviator had covered up their own mess with their unique skills. There were plenty of rules and regulations about memory magic, but it wasn't particularly traceable if someone wasn't looking for it or knew that it had been done.  Even then there were ways to keep the magic small and barely noticeable when someone did go looking.

He'd definitely had too many beers to be thinking about what an obliviator could and couldn't get away with.

Figaro just laughed, finding Nicholas Bevans as devious as mesh top and as threatening as his little brother Frank making breakfast. It was probably something he should have thought more deeply about (probably something they should all be thinking more deeply about), memory magic. But eh, they were having a laugh, what were empty threats between friends? Horse around, find out.

"Remember that time you got stabbed with a fork?"[1]

It had only been three years ago. Figaro always remembered the fork-stabbing part of that incident first, only later did he ever backtrack as to what had initiated the chain of events. It had been in the same melee that Sophie had broken Fig's nose, which she'd done because he'd let slip a secret about his friend Zelig, that he was a werewolf.

"Just kids, we were. So fresh and adorable."

1.	20 Oct 2009 - Secrets, Scars, and Wild Hairs

Well, Fig's long term memory seemed to be okay.  Nicholas shuddered at the memory of the fork sticking out of his leg.

"If I remember right, that was basically your fault."

That had been what three years before.  Nicholas wasn't sure they'd been fresh or adorable. But that whole fight did seem like a lifetime ago.  He smiled at the memory of the apple smacking his friend in the face. He definitely had enjoyed the chaos that day.  At least until the fork. "Did you ever figure out who, uh, hit you with that apple?"

Oh, Figaro remembered exactly who's fault it was. He'd resisted a long time owning up to his ill-considered foul-up, but in the end his friendships had mended and if his current moonlighting gig as a werewolf safehouse attendant was a clue, he'd wised up at least a little.

But the apple, oh ho, Figaro remembered exactly who'd cast the first fruit of the fracas.

"Sophie!" he declared with a big smile, the same one he always had for Sophie whether she was hitting him or kissing him. "I opened my mouth yeah, but Sophie Flickwick introduced the violence, as usual."

"I'd have preferred the fork. Wouldn't have sick all over my shoes, though. Took a slug-vomiting hex to make me do that."

Nicholas laughed as Fig declared Sophie the instigator.  Which really, true to a point. "To be fair, I'm pretty sure the apple was me."  Sometimes the pull of chaos was too much and too entertaining to ignore.  And at least at the time, Nicholas had thought Fig deserved it. 

"Sorry," he added insincerely.  "I'd have traded most anything for being stabbed."  He shuddered, "I just remember throwing up after pulling it out."

"We were all terrors."  Life had been much simpler back then.  So much had happened since then, not even counting just officially being an adult now.

They really had been terrors. Earnest, eager, ignorant, excited, messed up, little terrors careening through a magical castle with the barest supervision. Moments ago Fig and Bevans gotten nearly cross with each other over what wasn't all that clear, but thinking of the chaos of their recent youth seemed to mend things for now, or at least divert them. Figaro didn't think too deeply on transition. He settled back in the chair, putting his foot up on the balcony again.

"You hear from Moira ever?" he asked a little out of the blue. The segue made sense to Figaro, of course. This was the balcony where they'd had a one-sided shouting match all the way back last year.[1] Figaro hadn't seen or heard from her since Sasha's birthday party in February, which was itself a blur now. Felt like ages ago.

1.	31 Dec 2011 - We Are New