There were times, Jonas thought, when he enjoyed his job very much indeed.  Unfortunately, such moments were few and far between when he was working the droll and humdrum Muggle cases that sometimes seemed to stretch on to eternity, but ever since he'd taken out the advertisement in the Daily Prophet, the level of entertainment had stayed at a nearly constant and exceedingly acceptable level.  If only he'd known, he would have offered his services to the magical community far sooner.

Tackling the Runespoor casefile, though tedious, had proven to be the sort of challenge that he enjoyed.  Plenty of information to review, endless queries and angles to read up on, but the subject matter was not dry at all.  It had taken him a few days to get his feet under him, another still to come up with the avenues he wanted to pursue, but even balanced with the other work he'd taken on, he finally felt as if he had things where he wanted them.

This had been almost an afterthought, but he'd noticed that there had been one name in common to many of the recent news clippings.  Finding the individual in question had been relatively easy; finding a way to approach her outside of the magical sphere had been a bit more of a challenge.  Persistance, per usual, had eventually won out.  Pounding the pavement - or limping along the pavement, which he thought was likely a more accurate description - had brought him to what looked to be a tiny Indian restaurant, hardly noticeable among the other storefronts on the quiet Muggle street.

The tintinnabulation of the front bell had greeted him as he'd slipped inside.  Jonas took a moment to glance around, surveying the interior before turning his attention to the human figures present.  It looked to be any hole-in-the-wall establishment - not expensive, but the sort that brimmed with authenticity, even without the garish wall decorations or over-the-top costumes that catered to a very distinct crowd.  Judging by the look of the place, he couldn't imagine that it was run by anyone but Muggles, which certainly made his task easier.  Eavesdropping was an ailment of the magical and non-magical alike, but the latter were much less likely to make sense of the upcoming conversation.

It looked as though the owners of the small restaurant were busy in the back, leaving the woman that Jonas had come to speak to alone at the counter.  Clearly, there was no time like the present.  The private investigator risked a glance over his shoulder to make sure that no one was entering behind him, and then stepped up behind the woman, clearing his throat so as to announce his presence.

"Eating in or taking away?" he asked in a friendly tone, giving her a smile.  "Don't mind some company for a bit, do you, Miss Thursby?"

It was curry night.  But then, so many nights were curry nights.  Niobe did not like to cook, and cooking for one was even more tedius.  And Dominik had been coming round too often, so a chance to get down to her favorite, aromatic hiding place was the best option for a peaceful night. 

She waited at the counter while the Devrajani's daughter was back getting her plate ready.  Samosas and paneer in green curry.  Her mouth was watering. She had the Daily Prophet under her arm along with her purse which contained her notes, so she was ready to settle into a dingy booth and spend the evening getting some work done.

She turned at the sound of a voice and saw a red-haired man with blue eyes looking her over.  He knew her name, which was creepy.

She narrowed her eyes and did her best to exude the Don't Touch Mister aura.  Niobe wasn't hit on very often anymore.  She was in her thirties and didn't dress to impress.  The types she showed interest in were the ones who'd been in prison too long to care what she wore.  God.  That was an embarrassing thing to admit.

"I'm seeing someone," she claimed.  Dominik had to be good for something more than a casual shag.  He was big.  He'd scare off funny little gingers asking for her number.  Not that she had a number.  She assumed he was a muggle, because she was the only magical person she'd ever seen coming into this restaurant.  Maybe he'd overheard the Devrajanis use her name before - she came in so often they knew her order.  The usual, Miss Thursby? they'd call and she'd shrug a defeated positive.  She tried to dress more muggle when she popped down to the restaurant, but the owners were used to her 'eccentric' style and probably assumed she was an immigrant like they were.  From... South Africa or some place they were all equally uneducated about. 

"Mind your own business, eh?" she suggested haughtily. 

If he had been any less composed or on any more familiar territory, the private investigator would have doubled over with laughter.  As it was, only the threat of getting kicked out of the tiny restaurant and thereby losing the opportunity to press his advantage kept him from exploding into fits.  He swallowed hard, not trying nearly hard enough to hide his grin as he straightened to meet her gaze.

"Yeah, and I'm sure you're both fit for each other," he agreed cheerfully.  "Good on you, yeah?  Unfortunately," he continued, voice strained with amusement, "that isn't quite why I asked, but I'm glad we've gone and cleared it up.  Saves me an awful lot of trouble in the long run, it does."

Clearing his throat didn't do much to help him regain his composure, but he tried it anyway, and then offered the woman a handshake.

"Jonas Trevelyan," he said simply, extending his hand.  "I think I was a couple of years ahead of you at school."  To any Muggle, such a statement was straight-forward, but it was loaded enough for those who had attended a more selective sort of academy.  Hogwarts brought British witches and wizards together; it was a shared experience, a rite-of-passage, and perhaps one of the reasons that they were so slow to tolerate Muggles and the unfortunately foreign-born.

"You're at the Prophet now, aren't you?" he asked nonchalantly, glancing across the room to the kitchen.  one of the restaurant employees looked to be eyeing him suspiciously as she put the finishing touches on a curried dish.  "If the someone you're seeing doesn't mind sparing you for a few minutes more, I was hoping you might have some time to chat."

When the man didn't immediately go away, Niobe began to get irritated.  But a name was supplied quickly and her annoyance was washed away in a flood of a big grin.

Also keen on not causing a stir at the Indian Restaurant (as it was called so gracefully), Niobe bit back a more boisterous exclamation and instead gritted her teeth in a grin and gave Jonas a gentle shove on his shoulder.

Still talking through happily gritted teeth she shook her head.  "Jonas goddman Trevelyan!  I've been hearing about you, boyo."  It was as much a greeting as an approving accusation. 

Asha Devrajani returned with Niobe's plate and she took it up, having already paid.  (She was no good at muggle money.  Something about knuts, sickles and galleons - that made sense! But all those extra coins and the paper bits? What the hell was that about? Anyone could make paper, right? And those were the most valuable tender.)  Since she ordered the same thing every time, she'd figured out what to hand over including the gratuity.  They liked her here, respected her 'eccentricity' and she wanted to keep it that way.

She walked away from the counter to her corner booth.  The seat was torn out but it offered a good look outside. 

She grabbed up a fork on her way over and took her seat facing the window. 

She tapped a hot samosa with her fork.  "Have one - delicious."

She set to work on her own, breaking the fluffy savory pastry into little pieces. 

"I've been at the Prophet for years," she said to humor him.  "It's you who's been up to no good.  I'm a decent, hard-working witch and you - you're cornering decent, hard-working witches in muggle kabob shops."

"So spill. Why me?" 

Niobe had heard bits here and there that Jonas was out of the Corps and into the private sector.  She noticed the limp as they'd come over to the booth.  But everything she'd heard about what she thought was a very mangy line of work (all money, no honor!) had been good.  And Niobe had the ego to believe Jonas was investigating her.

The recognition was both flattering and a bit disconcerting.  He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the statement that he was, apparently, being heard about, but Jonas flashed her a lopsided smile anyhow and gamely followed to the booth, doing his best to mask the still-slight limp.

"Well, there's only so many witches who spend time in Muggle kabob shops," he said breezily, keeping a hand on the table as he eased himself carefully onto the opposite bench.  "That's a hobby that's a bit limiting on the choices, innit?"

Glancing across the room, he slipped a hand into his pocket.  Nothing looked out of the ordinary, no one paying them untoward attention save for the waitress, who was still watching with half an eye as she busied herself bussing a recently emptied table.  Having his back to the window always made him slightly jumpy, but with the belled door, at least it would be impossible for anyone to enter unannounced from the street.

His fingers closed around the folded piece of paper in his pocket.  Taking it out, he unfolded it twice, smoothed it down, and then slid it across the table to the reporter.

"Been catching up on some reading this week," Jonas said easily, inclining a nod to the clipping.  Though the typeface matched that of the Prophet and the content, reporting on a Runespoor attack that had occurred back in June, was obviously magical, an examination showed that the piece of paper itself was anything but.  The photograph that accompanied the news story was awkwardly frozen, a man reaching up to scratch his nose as he pushed a broom across a ransacked Diagon Alley, and the printed words were slightly blurry.  It was as if it were a copy of a copy, a magical original made obstinately mundane.

Picking up an extra fork, Jonas snagged the samosa and deposited it on a napkin.  "Hard not to notice the byline.  Not too bad, though, getting assigned to cover that whole mess," he remarked cheerfully, creasing the pastry neatly in half with the tines of the fork.  "Must've been quite the coup to take it on, yeah?  Reckon it's exciting enough to be worth all the tumult that must come with it."

Niobe's ego soared and slid the copy back to Jonas after a cursory glance.  She wrinkled her nose and bit her lip.  "So nice to meet a fan."

This was half the reason she stuck with journalism so long - the idea that her work was seen and useful to hundreds of thousands of witches and wizards, that her name was known and her reputation matched the same ideals she valued about herself.  Determination. Truthiness. And damn good writing. 

The other half was her Gryffindor's altruism, that bravery that drove her to do what others wouldn't do for the cause of real Truth, which, she believed, would only lead to truly good things in the end.

She drummed the three remaining fingers of her left hand on the table.  "Lost a finger for that article.  I think it reads," she said, forgetting that boasting was rude.  And how incredibly stupid she'd been not to just hide behind a dustbin and save her own skin.  Of course, she'd never have been able to live with herself.

"Was that day that really clinched in for Barnabas Cuffe," she said, referencing the Daily Prophet's shrewd editor, "How could he take me off the story once I'd shed blood and knuckles for it? I'd've killed him."  She smiled again.

"So what's your stake in it, Jonas? I hardly doubt this is innocent flattery and curiosity.  Like I said, I'm seeing someone."

Gods, she liked attention.  The attention of big news journalism, the attention from a private investigator (and a good one at that), and the potential of attention for seeing that ruffian Wiedman again. 

The private investigator listened with interest, unable to stop himself from flashing Niobe a bemused smile at her final statement.  "Good and firm on that, aren't you?" he asked genially, not looking at all put out by the reminder.  "And here I was almost forgetting."

The question was on the table, then.  Jonas had known it was coming.  Lying was hardly an integral part of his profession; oftentimes, finding a creative way to apply the truth was what got him the answers he was looking for.  But more and more over the years, he had moved from careful omissions and artistic applications to blatantly making up facts.  The transition had been almost seamless, and looking back, it was difficult to delineate where one ended and the other began.  It had just been so much simpler to tell his ex-wife that he'd been working late, or his old wizarding friends that he'd spent a decade traveling, but one simple story led to the next until he was mired in confounded constructions of his own design.

There was, of course, professional courtesy to complicate matters.  Whatever else she was, Tamis Raynor was now also a client, which meant he owed it to her to be discrete about the fact that she had hired him.  But if he wasn't up front about what was at stake, he doubted that the reporter would trip over herself to assist him.

"Off the record?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Niobe for confirmation.  "It's personal.  One of me old mates from Hogwarts was the Auror who was running the investigation backalong in the '90s.  He busted up part of the ring, and they murdered him for his trouble."

Jonas shrugged.  "I got approached a couple of weeks ago by someone who was concerned about how the Ministry investigation was being handled," he said easily, returning his attention to breaking apart the samosa.  "Gave me an excuse to nip in proper, so I said yes.  And I could hardly start digging around without having a word with the one person who's already running the job outside of Level Two, could I?"

Off the record? All the juiciest things followed that harmless little request, but for Niobe a nod of agreement was as binding as an Unbreakable Vow.  She lost her reputation, she lost everything.  She did nod in confirmation and began in on her curry.

But she stopped mid bit to look up again, her face serious.

"Tait Aldridge."  She'd remembered that story.  She'd been too green as grass in 1994, still a kid living in Belfast reporting small time for their local rag.  But she was a paperhound and read the Daily Prophet cover to cover.  It was just part of Niobe's personality to be up on news and who was making it.  But Niobe had no idea of Aldridge's connection to current Auror Head Tamis Raynor.  So whoever JOnas was working for, she had no inklings.  So when he said personal, she believed him.

She dug in again.

"That was some well horrible stuff," she commented, mouth full and swept a stray lock back into its bundle.

"You're having a go at what then? Ministry mishandling?"  It was a serious question becuase that was always a serious concern when something went on this long with only small time convictions.  Tiverton, Briggs, Sellaphix - they were on the arseend of things.  Boring, meaningless snatches.  But Niobe hadn't got even a whiff of mishandling, and she'd tell Jonas that. 

"Or are you going for a mystery solved here?"  That wasn't a serious question, and she punctuated it with a laugh that presumed Jonas would find the notion funny as well.

'Horrible stuff' was about the most accurate (and least colorful) description of it that he had heard, but Jonas merely gave a good-natured shrug.  The next few questions were back on the subject at hand.  He smiled amiably along with her laughter, stabbing at the bulk of the samosa with his fork.

"Always better to aim high, innit?" he asked agreeably.  "There's the difference between law enforcement and being privately employed, though.  When some bloke decides to pay me to poke around, he gets to limit the scope." 

Which was technically true, and certainly held for the majority of his cases.  But in this instance, even if Raynor hadn't deliberately left the terms undefined, he would have taken up snooping on his own time.  He certainly wasn't an incredible investigative prodigy, and Jonas knew that he was unlikely to turn up any new leads in the territory that Ministry officials had been snooping about in for the past twenty or thirty years, but he had one or two tricks that they had likely never managed - namely, a lack of regulations and Muggle search engines on the internet.

He tapped his fork on the table, and then shrugged, glancing back at her.  "I come across the blighters within said narrowed scope, I'm not about to go on me merry way, but I'm not the one to bring 'em in, am I?" Jonas said reasonably.  "That's Level Two's calling - or the Prophet's, if you want to hang 'em in the press first.  I'm better served to do what you lot can't."

Niobe inclined her head and raised an eyebrow, impressed at Jonas's moxie to be aiming high.  Every inch Niobe had gained in the Runespoor case had been clawed up between the cracks in a dirty floor.  No one on Level Two was talking to her anymore.  And her faithful Indian dignitary was hard to find, even if he was amacalble to chatting.  The Ministry had Colonel Kabir tied up tight.

More curry.

She shook her head. "Good luck getting anything out of Level Two.  Don't even talk to me about Level Two.  They're shut up so tight, they're not even letting a fart squeak out.  Used to have a good partnership with some of their people - showed them due respect in the Prophet, made sure never to jump them on an arrest or blow any whistles without sending them a tip-off - giving them some time, y'know?  But all that seems to be off."

She was ranting a little. But the whole Department had gone cold on her over the summer.  They weren't happy she'd gotten to Kabir, or the way she'd done it, elbowing right into his hospital bed, practically. 

Now that Niobe thought about it, she wondered what edge Jonas has that he thought he'd have any luck at all.  Sure, he could poke around without warrents and have conversations off the record unlike the red-robes.  But he wasn't a dumbledore.

Jonas couldn't help arching a brow at the reporter's description of Level Two.  'Shut up tight' didn't seem to match with 'Department head hiring outside consultants,' and for all that he and Tamis Raynor had once been - well, not friends, but certainly able to tolerate each other, he was definitively nowhere near part of the Auror Office.  He had been willing to accept her statement that she needed him because the Ministry couldn't well investigate itself, but completely shutting down on normal avenues of communication wasn't a sign of normal internal corruption.  Rather, it was a sign of serious internal corruption.  If not that, then something else was gravely wrong.

He filed the information away as he took a bite of the samosa.  For all he knew, Thursby had committed some law enforcement sin all on her own and the closed-off conduit was the result.  But the idea was worth later consideration.  Jonas didn't like the idea of problems on Level Two.

"Yeah, that sounds like the Corps," he agreed, pushing the thoughts aside as he flashed Niobe another smile.  "We were a proper band of gits even when I was with the Department.  Get so caught up in the red robe and the badge that you forget there's more to the world, yeah?  Too bad on them going cold on you."

He shrugged, picking up the fork again as he returned his attention to the samosa. "I can see how that'd be a challenge, though," Jonas said nonchalantly, carefully alert to any sound of reaction from the reporter.   If he hadn't been going for casual, it would be easy to accuse him of overacting.  "Hard to get anywhere on a story if you can't get anyone to confirm it for you.  Too bad you don't know a bloke who'd be willing to source things on record, innit?"

Niobe was interested now.  She'd never been able to forget he'd been an Auror himself and she rankled a little with jealousy at how that helped him do his work.  Probably had some friendly faces at the Ministry even if some of them didn't like how he was turning his trade now that he was out.  Probably had some criminal dossiers committed to memory, knew about cold and shut cases that she'd never get an eyeball on.

And 'cold on her' indeed.  She knew it was personal, that they weren't pleased with her, didn't think they could trust her.  They were worried that people would draw connections that didn't exist from the bits that got out.  But in Niobe's mind, she wasn't making those connections.  If anyone was making connections it was readers.  She published the truth.  She lined up strings of events.  She didn't do anything to undermine their investigations.  Too bad their egos didn't allow them to agree.  Robards murder had them all incredibly skittish as well. 

But Jonas had a hand he wasn't revealing.  He looked like some smug ringer ready to drop a Golden Dragon Kite Fight* on the table. 

She put her fork down and place her elbows on the table.  She folded her hands together, save the index fingers which she slowly leveled at him.  Her eyes were narrow, her head  slightly inclined to the left. 

"Innit," she confirmed bluntly.  "Too bloody bad."

What was he playing at?  He wasn't offering to provide her with good info.  Couldn't be.  What would be in it for him giving away that kind of thing.  Information was the most precious commodity in the world to these two.  You shared it when the time was right.  When it was complete.  And without milking your sources dry, making them feel used and compromised.  Handling sources was diplomatic, ego-petting, and a measured compassion for their situations.  Ruin all that and you were sunk, and they were too.

"No such thing as conjuring a sandwich* is there, Jonas?  You playing games with me?




_{*Wizards' Poker Reference.  A famously good hand invented by the players in York in 1572.
*In my mind the, the Wizarding equivalent to "No such thing as a free lunch".} 

Jonas might have been embarrassed to admit it in polite company, but these were the sort of moments that he lived for above all else.  The cathartic release at the end of a well-constructed plan was never quite as good on a screen as it was in real life.  Granted, that was usually because he spent the entire movie trying to figure out the surprise ending that he was certain was going to be sprung on him - there was probably still an entire theater full of people down in Exeter who would never forgive him for loudly spoiling the ending to the 'dead people' boy film when he'd cottoned on to the twist after the second act.  But even so, watching something he'd maneuvered into being come to its final fruition made him giddy with self-satisfaction.

He flashed the reporter an enormous grin, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement.  "Of course not," he said cheerfully.  "If I were playing games, you'd be liable not to trust me, wouldn't you?  And all you've got to do is mention off-handedly in an article that a P.I. is poking around, and the Ministry'll be on me so fast that me head'll still be spinning long after they put me out of work."

That, of course, ignored the fact that there were other, more dangerous games he was playing, even outside of the Runespoor case.  Too much media attention - any media attention - would make it much more difficult to keep his status as a former Auror under wraps.  He'd been at it for months now, and he was only starting to build connections with some of the folks around Knockturn.  They wouldn't be nearly as willing to work with a bloke who was known as a former member of the Ministry.

"Look, cards on the table," Jonas said, following her lead as he set his fork down.  He met her gaze and held it.  "I'm doing a favor for someone at the Ministry, and in return, they turned a blind eye to restoring some permissions for me.  So I've got access, but I've been out of this world for long enough that I don't know many blokes on the street.

"But you do, yeah?" he asked, flashing her a quick, crooked smile.  "You've been working this one for longer'n I have, and the word about town has it that you're better'n anyone else at what you do."  Which was not necessarily true, but it very well could be, and a little flattery had never hurt his chances.  "I'm not in this to play games," he said honestly.  "I don't give a bloody damn who brings the bastards down.  We're working toward the same goal on this one, aren't we?  Reckon it makes sense for us to make a deal."

Jonas smiled and seemed genuinely excited.  He was behaving as if she was about to grant him something very valuable and she looked at him hard and skeptical for a few moments.  She didn't know him well enough to guess at his capacity to play her.  But he'd laid out his purpose and on paper, and it looked wicked. 

Niobe had no reason at all to doubt that the word about town, her being the best, was absolutely true.  There were more senior, more decorated writers at the Prophet, but none of them worked as hard as she did.  And none of them had her contacts.

Was interesting about Niobe's goals.  She certainly didn't share them with Level Two and she wasn't 100% convinced she shared them with Jonas.  In some ways, Niobe didn't care what lived and died in London, only that she found out all the grisley details.  She didn't want revenge, she didn't want crime to end (not any more than the next witch or wizard) - she just wanted to the truth.  And when that was found, good things fell into place.  She wanted to find out to know, not to take any bastards down.

(Unless of course the bastard was Cinaed Tawse and then she'd happily lock him up herself.)

As excited as Jonas was, Niobe was beginning to share it.

"So, you get to know my people, and you'll what? You'll get me in with Raynor's people? They like you that much up there?"

In her voice was a bit of disbelief.  Not so much anymore that she didn't trust JOnas, but that what he was talking about seemed like a miracle.

"Yeah, mostly on account of me being able to walk on water and work miracles," Jonas replied easily, flashing her an appreciative smile in return.  It occurred to him belatedly that that was probably not the best example of hyperbole to use with a woman who could wave a piece of wood and perform the unbelievable herself, but he plowed on nonetheless.  Adages worked much better in Muggle conversations.

He cleared his throat, and then gave her an embarrassed smile.  "Meaning, don't know if I'd go that far.  I'm pulling favors getting meself in there, and you know how those blokes are with access to information."  Guarded, protective, and not likely to share it even under threat of imminent death or imminent publication.  "If anyone at the top," specifically Tamis Raynor, whom Jonas had no doubt would carry through on her threat to organize his state funeral, "finds out that I'm consorting with the press, I'll lose any chance I've got of getting anything out of there, too."

"So we compromise," he continued cheerfully.  "If there's something you need confirmed, you let me know and I'll see what I can scare up in the Office, yeah?  And if I need a turn from one of your blokes, I'll tell you and you can do the same.  We each handle our own sources ourselves, and there's not a chance for wires to get crossed, or, ah, wands to misfire..."  He struggled for a moment to find the magical equivalent, and then gave up with a shrug.

"You know.  And if you're willing to do the same, I'll even keep an ear to the ground and pass on word if I hear something that might be of interest to you."  The private investigator's expression sobered slightly as he gave Niobe a more cautious look.  "Though there's a favor that I'd have to ask in return."