As always, May had proven to be a much drier month than February, March, and April combined.  By the early Saturday morning, the sun was already peeking through the clouds, and so Jonas had stopped by his old office to grab his work and decided to take it to the streets.

With Macduff still on the loose and the threat from him growing every day, security was of utmost importance at the moment, but the former private investigator felt fairly certain that use of the London Underground was enough to shake off any magical tail.  He'd taken a circuitous route, changing lines more than was strictly necessary, and blended in to the crowds where he could, keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed overly attentive.  Any pureblood wizard capable of tracking him through a trip on the Tube probably deserved to catch him at the end of it.

He'd finally ended up in a shabbier part of the city, not all that far from the Ministry as the crow flew.  Jonas had immediately headed into a coffee shop, grabbing a drink at the counter before taking over a table near the window and spreading out his notes to give himself a chance to get his bearings.

It had taken longer than it needed to in order to track down Benjamin Wright.  Part of the delay had been by necessity -- Jonas hadn't wanted to move too quickly, just in case Prideaux or Tait's murderer had been keeping an eye on him, and following up on this lead had proved less urgent than running down the information about Hyskos and Storm.  On top of that, he and Adon had both agreed that it was probably better not to use Ministry resources for this one.  The further they got into the Runespoor investigation, the more likely it seemed that someone on the inside was leaking information, and neither wanted to take the risk.

And so Jonas had been left to run down Wright the old fashioned way.  It was a bit of a relief, using Muggle records again, and much more interesting than just using MLE clout to pull the man's record and address.  He'd called in a few favors, done some research, and had managed to come up with as much information about the man as the Muggle system seemed willing to give him.

Security always seemed much less important when he was in a Muggle location.  Jonas sat with his back to the wall, angled toward both the door and window, keeping a careful eye out just in case as he plowed through his notes one last time.  The Muggles wandering into the coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon wouldn't think twice about the handwritten documents spread in front of him, even though they were obvious blurry copies[1] of something that looked official, nor would they pay any attention to the address or other notes that he'd scribbled on Post-It Notes and left stuck to the table in front of him.  As far as the rest of the mundane world was concerned, he was just one more individual reviewing too much paperwork, trying to get through the lot of it before his coffee cooled off.

1.	Various pages taken from Jonas's copy of the Runespoor casefile, carefully photographed and copied from the original during the one night that he had it in his possession.

Merlin's red beard... was that... Jonas Trevelyan?  Going into... Coffee Corner?  Niobe furrowed her brow and stepped of the pavement to trot across the street.  Yea, he'd really gone into Coffee Corner.  She lit a cigarette from two shops down, outside a muggle newstand.  She didn't routinely smoke, but found they were always a good cover for when you needed a reason to just stand around and stare at people passing by. 

What the hell was he doing in this part of London?  Then she remembered he was muggleborn and had more reason to be here than she did.  Niobe was only in this part of town to collect what she hoped was a memory remedy from some local-secret, mum-and-pop-shop divinist.  She'd been paranoid since her accidental Obliviation that she'd lost some of her edge.  If she misplaced her office keys she couldn't help but think she might have lost more than her keys, her memory again.  It was quite unnerving.

But that was beside the point.  She now had to go snoop in Jonas's business.

She put out her half-smoked cigarette on the ground, having only taken one or two smelly pulls, just letting it ash an inch or so.  Then she went on her way, covering the yardage between the newstand and the unappetizing facade of Coffee Corner. 

Ding, d-ding.  The door chimed when it swung open and then shut again.  A bored teenager manned the counter - Niobe and the barista both ignored each other and Niobe went straight to Jonas's table and sat down.

She had a big grin on her face.  But she kept her hands in her lap, respectfully off his papers. She kept her eyes off to, just looking at Jonas pleasently.

"Very bad time to become an Auror," she said morbidly.  "That why you've taken your whole cubicle to the armpit of London?"

With the recent chaos of Tawse's visitation and the mirrored threats from Macduff and the Runespoor smugglers, Jonas had been doing his best to stay more alert than he normally did.  Paranoia was a bit like riding a bike; once you'd gotten it down, you really just had to get yourself back into the right mindset to start it working for you again.  It had been years since he'd really, truly been terrified, but the fight-or-flight response that came from hiding for one's life never really went away.

As it was, as focused as he'd been on the papers, the approaching movement caught his attention an instant before his visitor claimed the seat.  Jonas glanced up, not really starting as he took in the silhouette.  Even without the recognizable lilt of her brogue, the dreadlocks would have given her away.

It was a little bit embarrassing, the fact that Niobe Thursby had caught him essentially with his wand out, classified papers  that he probably shouldn't have spread all over the table.  Jonas's first instinct was to shuffle them quickly into a pile, but he held off, setting one hand flat on the table.  As Thursby spoke, she kept her eyes deliberately off his papers.  So it was to be a sort of game, then.  If she wasn't going to look, then he was perfectly capable of playing everything cool and pretending that there wasn't anything worth looking at.

"Whole cubicle?" he asked, looking up with a crooked smile.  "Naw.  Got at least a half-dozen mountains of paper that I didn't bother to lug along.  They're holding up the walls back in the office."

He couldn't exactly say that he minded the interruption, now that it had happened.  He liked Thursby: she was competent, up front about her intentions, and had shown that she was willing to play fair.  If she was here to chitchat, he could spare a few moments; if there was some other agenda in play, then he was willing to wait it out and see where things lead.

"And it's not that bad a time," he put in nicely, finally closing the file as he settled back in his chair.  "Making mint on overtime, and we're all over the news now, aren't we?  'Fraid to say that if you're here for a quote, though, the most I can give you is 'No Comment,'" he added cheerfully.  "Got to lay low for a bit now that the new boss has taken over.  He doesn't seem like much of a media type to me."

"Aw..."  Niobe said sweetly, looking politely despondent.  "No comment, but Jonas..." 

She'd done a short write-up on this new boss - seems he had the same affinity for gag orders that Tamis Raynor had.  The more things change the more they stay the same, she supposed.

It was taking a great deal of willpower to keep her eyes off his work and on his face.  But as she wrung her hands in her lap under the table, she knew there was some respect to be made for an Auror she'd come to respect.  Niobe'd not be ashamed to admit that many of the brutes from Level Two she considered thugs and dummies, and so many of her sources around Britain.  But when you encountered someone with a brain and principles, someone reliable like Jonas, it paid to treat him right.  It took time and maybe she had to sacrifice, but in the long run it was strong, trusting relationships that built a great reporter and brought in the best stories.

"That's too bad - was hoping to let you off easy," she said.  "Throw us a bone and I can consider your favor paid.  But now you've got to let me...help you."  Niobe smiled and tucked a dreadlock behind her ear with the others.   

"I'm no Auror, but maybe that's my advantage."

The red-haired Auror raised his eyebrows, studying her thoughtfully for a moment.  Despite the fact that it likely wouldn't take much incentive to prompt Rosier to murder him, the request was tempting.  He might have to follow the every whim of the new Department Head, but the reporters of the Daily Prophet were well out of the other wizard's purview.  As long as the leaks weren't traced back to him, he could feed Thursby information until the hippogriffs came home and there was nothing that Rosier could do about it.

He picked up the file, tapping the spine on the table to straighten the papers within it.  "Dunno how I feel about getting offers of mercy like this," he replied, flashing Thursby a grin.  "I thought you lot always went straight for the jugular.  Reckon it can't say anything good about the straights we're in if even the Prophet's feeling sorry for us."

As much as he might hate to admit it, there was a little too much truth to the words.  Thursby didn't really seem the sort to pull her punches, even with her allies.  If she was willing to let him pay off the favor that he owed her, there had to be something else in the works. 

Even so, considering what else they were up against right now -- Macduff's threats, their new superior, the myriad of outside threats and unsolved cases -- Blackmail with the Intent to Publish didn't seem a particularly daunting danger at the moment.  Nothing he could do or say would change reality right now, especially if she stuck to their agreement and kept all quotes unattributed.  At worst, going along with whatever she had in mind would cause someone on Level Two a headache.  At best, the headache would be the sole property of Rosier.

"Alright, I'll bite," he said at last, giving her a bemused look.  "Aside from it keeping madmen from threatening to kill you, how's not being an Auror to your advantage, Miss Thursby?"

"You're a genuinely good person, Mr Trevelyan, I can tell," she stated, as if she could back it up with a statistic.  She said it almost by way of thanks that he'd decided to play friendly-like, to go along and suffer her assistance. 

Truth be out - the stricter security on Level Two had been working too damn well.  The Daily Prophet's leaks - er... links - were drying up.  Lips were zipping all over the place and it was getting quite difficult to stay ahead of things.  They were the Prophet after all - they were quite used to being slightly ahead.  The reactive nature of reporting of these last months felt very mundane and tedious.

A glint lit in her eye about 'madmen threatening to kill her' - her track record wasn't so clean as he thought.  But she took the question to heart.

"Why, sir, I come equipped with a variety of features useful to the law-man," she said, demonstrating a rather fine RP accent.  "Criminals will speak with me like an old friend, and many doorways are open to my dread-lockéd head.  I also am not restricted in the use of these..."

She moved her hand to the inside of her jacket and slipped out what might look like to any muggles watching a bit of flesh-colored rubber tubing with plastic ears on the end. 

They were Weasley's Extendable Ears.  They were some of Niobe's most shameful accouterments, and she'd lost hers to Cinaed Tawse for a time.  But she'd finally picked up a new pair when she'd found their absence more abominable than the guilt she felt having them around. 

"I'm also an unregistered animagus," she added with a straight face, grim as all hell.

The reporter spoke with such resolute severity that Jonas couldn't help breaking into a grin.  He flashed Thursby an appreciative smile, as he slipped the casefile into his messenger bag and latched it shut.  With so many recent developments in the past week, from the alliance with Trishna to the appointment of Rosier and then the threats sent by Dugan Macduff, he and Adon had carefully picked through the copy of the Runespoor file that stayed in the office on Level Two, removing anything that might seem remotely sensitive.  The Ministry had been obviously compromised more than once in the history of the smuggling investigation, and with a new Department Head being granted access to the casefiles, they'd decided that they couldn't risk a similar betrayal.

"Well, I wouldn't go telling me that," he chided good-naturedly.  "I'd have to go report you to -- ....someone?" he finally finished lamely.  The uncertainty took all of the ominousness he'd been hoping for out of the threat.

In reality, if she really were an unregistered animagus, the feat would be impressive enough that Jonas imagined it would be a waste to report it.  Something like that would certainly explain how the Prophet got so many scoops.  Even Extendable Ears could only extend so far, and there had to be some advantage in turning into, say, a pigeon and flitting all over London without notice.

Jonas mulled over the possibilities as he picked up the messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder.  Thursby had certainly proven she could keep her mouth shut when necessary, and if the Runespoor case was going to turn into a temporary crusade against Vedir Prideaux, she deserved a head's up on what she was getting herself into, even if that wasn't anything he could let her publish yet. 

Besides, the woman was right -- he did owe her.  If he took her up on her offer to 'help' -- with some ground rules laid, of course -- then at least he could consider that favor paid when it was time to ask for another.

"Tell you what," he said after a beat.  "We'll go take a walk and you can help me out with something, but it's got to stay off the record.  And far off the record," he added, casting a look at Niobe.  "I think it might be useful for you to know it, but I want your word that you won't even think about pursuing this one any further.  In return, as we walk, I'll let you ask me three questions, yeah?" he offered, flashing her a lopsided grin as he turned toward the door.  "And anything I say in response to those, you can quote me on.  So long as we both agree me name's 'An Anonymous Auror.'"

She was glad he got her joke about being an animagus, and even more thrilled that this little ambush had turned fruitful!  Gee willikers! Playing kinda-sorta-fair seemed to be good karma.  This summer was coming up all Thursby, yessiree!

She got up when he did, watching him gather up his things.  She was still dead curious exactly what he was at today, but seemed like she didn't have to be curious any longer.  She followed him out.  They were out the coffee shop just as he revealed his bargain.

Walking down the street his limp was probably more noticeable than he'd have liked, but Niobe didn't disapprove.  Scars, limps, removed digits - all of them pointed to a storied life and she respected others all the more if they shared a defect even if it was won by brashness.  She adjusted her bag  on her shoulder with her four-fingered hand, and tapped her pocket - double-checking her wand.  She hoped she'd need it.

"You've got my Unbreakable Vow, Mr. Anonymous," she assured him stoically.  "Well off the record."  It pained her to say it; but these hours could be billable as 'research'.  Even if she couldn't print a shred of what happened, maybe it would provide some context.  A place to start or finish something.  Get her eyes on something to uncover all this mystery that the Level Two Clam Up had caused.

She rubbed her hands together, her subconscious summoning the nervous habit as if to summon a genie for three wishes.  "Oooh, let us see... What to ask..."

Niobe's eyebrows popped up and clicked her tongue.  "I've got it.  Give us the skinny on Rosier.  Don't be stingy either. Who'd he kill to become king of Camelot?"

Jonas chuckled, flashing the reporter a crooked grin as they started down the pavement.  "Gawain Robards," he said cheekily.  "No, don't print that -- well, you can, but only if you include that last bit, too."

He paused as they reached the corner, glancing up at the buildings to read the street signs.  He'd cased out Wright's flat a couple of times before.  At this time of day, there was no telling if the downtrodden man was even home, but at least the building would serve as a visual aid for what he wanted to tell Thursby.

"I couldn't tell you," he said, starting across the street.  Now that they were walking, his gait had slowed to a moderate, rolling pace, even with the limp.  "Word in the office has it that some of the purebloods on the Wizengamot felt we needed a heavier hand at the helm.  Macduff's been eating us up, and instead of giving us the free hand we need to go after him, they put a paper-pusher in charge who wants to reign us in even more."

"This is just one man's opinion, of course," he said contritely.  "But Rosier's in over his head.  We're getting death threats in the owl post, and he's more interested in making sure that the entire bloody department knows we're supposed to be under his thumb.  He already had one Auror quit on him yesterday," he added, glancing sidelong to eye Niobe.  "Pratt turned in his badge after Rosier made a smart remark about putting his family in danger by staying in crimson.  I'd appreciate it if you could keep Ed out of the paper, though.  Poor bloke's been through a lot already."

Niobe's eyes snapped to at the mention of an Auror resigning.  Pratt.  Ed Pratt.

Her eyebrows knit in concern.  It had been Jonas that had tricked them into an acquaintance and she'd liked the smarmy, awkward hunk.  "That bad, eh..?"

She shook her head.  She hadn't expected to hear that at all.  She knew there'd been some controversy about the position.  None were too eager to queue up for the post since its last occupant was brutally murdered, with rumors swarming about an inside job. 

No, she wouldn't publish about Ed by name, but she might swing by and bother him personally.  Maybe if not just to get a little more inside information on Rosier.  Two anonymous sources was better then one. 

She was so sombered by the answer to her question that she'd lost track of where they were.  She only looked up at their surroundings when she noticed Jonas doing the same thing.  Wherever they were going, he wasn't 100% in his natural habitat - a good detail to keep in mind. 

"Well good luck," she said wryly.  "Hope you all make it work up there - we're all rooting for you." 

If not the Aurors, she supposed, then who?

"Yeah, so are we," Jonas replied with grim humor, shaking his head.

It was always impressive how quickly a London neighborhood could turn.  They'd simply rounded a corner and found themselves not in the peppy, upbeat developments that had marked the street near the coffee shop, but near a much more dilapidated run of buildings.  The block of flats that was today's destination looked completely unremarkable, save for the layer of grime and general unkemptness that marred the building.

Jonas paused a few buildings down from it, keeping a careful eye for anyone else who might be watching as he glanced at Niobe.

"So the bloke who lives here," he said, nodding up to the building, "is a Muggle by the name of Benjamin Wright.  Been keeping an eye on him for a bit over a month now."  All of his notes were tucked into his messenger bag, but Jonas's memory was usually good enough that he didn't need them; he'd always kept records more for the sake of writing things down than actually needing to reference them.  "London native, just shy of fifty, known to the local police constables for a tendency for petty crime.  Pick pocketing, dealing drugs, all that sort of thing."

"The bit they don't know," he added, glancing sidelong at the reporter, "is that Wright's been involved with magic since he was a teenager.  Fathered a kid with a witch when he was seventeen, been about our type on and off since then.  He's got a record at St. Mungo's that you might find interesting -- just be discreet when you look it up, though," he added dryly.  "Been obliviated at least twice by me count, although I wouldn't be surprised if it were more.  From what I've dug up, his memory's shot.  He's completely paranoid.  Known in the Muggle world for being a bit barmy.  Not really the sort that most blokes would trust with much."

He paused to let that sink in.  Thursby was sharp; she knew this was about Runespoors, and she ought to be able to add two and two together.  The actual structure of the smuggling operation -- that was one thing they'd never been able to peg.  Everyone in the magical world was on high alert for the three-headed snakes, and yet somehow they were still being moved into the country.

Jonas cleared his throat and nodded pointedly to the building, and then flashed the reporter a crooked smile.

"So," he said, raising his eyebrows at her as if in challenge.  "Reckon I remember a mention of convincing criminals to speak with you like you're old mates.  Think you can talk us both inside for a chat with Mr Wright, Ms Thursby?"

On onlooker might, at first glance, see a couple of middle-aged Londoners who fancied long coats even in May.  One of them a tall red-headed man with an easy face.  The other a slightly wild-dreadlocked woman, who looked amused now.  Just standing near an apartment building chatting, perhaps passing the time deciding where to eat, or one seeing the other off after some joint errand.  They were, more or less, as inconspicuous as they could want to be.  But if they lingered much longer, more curious eyes might settle on them, look more closely and ask questions.

The woman looked over her shoulder and shifted her stance.  Jonas has just finished laying out their 'errand' which had a name now.  Benjamin Wright, a muggle who'd forgotten more about the Wizarding World than the Wizengamot would ever be comfortable allowing for.  Niobe was amused.  And jealous of all the fun Aurors got to have. 

When Jonas then turned the tables on her, she got serious.  "Of course, I can."

Niobe wasn't an expert about muggles or their way of living.  But she did live in a set of flats built by muggles in a mostly muggle neighborhood.  So what they had in common was apartment life.

"Follow my lead," she said, as if she'd said, 'Once Upon a Time'.  It was a line that began so many delightfully reckless episodes...

She stepped up the uneven stoop to the alcove where an indelicately locked door kept them out of the apartment building.  She ran her five-fingered hand down the list of occupants, names scribbled faded and illegible next to buttons and room numbers.  She found a 'Wright' and then pressed the call button.  And held it. 

She smiled at Jonas and blinked.  "Give us a moment."

The old, worn speaker attached to the call box just spat static, in a kind of weak way, as if the electronic device didn't want to bother. Still, the button apparently did something; after a few quiet moments, far above them a door opened and shut with a rattle, and footsteps approached down what was obviously a rickety staircase.

The man that appeared at the door suited the building. His clothes were old, clearly irregularly washed and mismatched; his hair was wild and greasy, his eyes tired and bloodshot. The cigarette shoved behind his ear was still smoking, and his head was surrounded by a thin halo of smoke. This might have made him intimidating, but the fact he was clearly rail thin under his baggy clothing certainly dismissed any chance of that.

"Sod off, Mary, I don't have your mo-" he started, then paused, looking at the empty steps. It seemed to take several seconds for him to register there was truly no one there. He blinked slowly, removing his cigarette and puffing at it before he suddenly noticed the two people standing next to him. He jumped slightly, stumbled, and looked at them. Then his eyes narrowed and there was a sense he was getting down to 'business'.

"Whaddya want? Topsy 'asn't been around this week if yer lookin' to buy." His cigarette faded out in the breeze that swept down the narrow street, and he cursed under his breath and started feeling around in his coat for his lighter.

Her little trick worked!  It had certainly worked on her plenty of times when Dominik Wiedman had leaned on her call button rather than go and sleep in his own bed across town.  The muggle that 'greeted' them with a gruff odor and equally colorful odor was a real treat.  She had to hand it to Jonas - this was fun.

"I'm called Niobe," she introduced herself in her bright Irish accent.  "Do you know what this is?"

She opened her palm for just a moment to give him just a flash of a galleon.  A coin nearly three inches wide, gleaming gold.  She searched his craggy, aged face for some glimpse of recognition.  He'd lived more than his years had planned for, she thought.  His drawn features reminded her of ex-Azzies and their barely-there souls behind hollow eyes.

"We want to talk.  Invite us in."

Her requests, while they took the loose form of demands, were really suggestions.  Firm but friendly.  Not threatening in any way.  Hopefully the presence of something shiny like a galleon would be implication enough that his cooperation would be paid for.

The flash of gold was one of the best things Niobe could have done. Not just for the prospect of money; it was the form of money she'd chosen. Ben made no effort to hide the recognition on his face. Instead, his face grew graver, and he sighed, giving up on his cigarette. He flicked the stub off into the street.

He held the door open pointedly. In Ben's head, this all made perfect sense; it wasn't the usual routine, but sometimes they sent different people. And all of them paid, of course; some of them in silver and one time in copper, which he had still tried to hock. They all carried one promise, though; he had to be useful. Not being useful was a recipe for pain.

"It's upstairs. 4th floor," He said, and headed for the rickety staircase, walking up it. He glanced at the two carefully. Small talk was never really a good thing with this crowd.

"S'been causing me no end o' trouble," he muttered, largely to himself. The hallway at the top of the stairs wasn't any more cheerful than the outside of the building. Sunlight streamed in through smoky panes of glass, giving the dark walls and floor a dreamlike quality; a depressing dreamlike quality. But there was a stillness to the place that suggested that anyone who could afford to had long since left, and had left people like Ben behind. This was a building where dreams came to die.

He opened the door to his flat - a studio, no more cheerful at first glance than the hallway. Surprisingly, it wasn't as filthy as his appearence might suggest. It was clean, seemingly mostly due to the lack of objects within. But a sitar sat against the far wall, stacks of sheet music on the floor in front of it. The window had no curtains, and the lower panel was broken; he'd tried to fix it with the magic of duck tape and hope, the later of which was in short supply here.

The  kitchen trashcan overflowed with beer bottles, and the freezer's door was held shut by a piece of twine. But there were other touches, too; a clock with kittens on it was hung on the wall. In the kitchen, a chipped mug proclaimed its owner to be the 'World's Best Uncle (And No Mistake)'. On the bedside table - which was a cable spool sat on its side - a handmade tablecloth sat, with a family portrait smiled out with surprising cheerfulness. Of course, next to the picture  was a well-used pocket knife and a half-drunk beer, but the sentiment was there.

The bed itself was of particular interest. Benjamin headed for it, automatically. The mattress was old, and the dent in it was that unique shape that indicated the bed served as the couch, too. It faced the old television, which could only be seen when the door closed. An old, but clearly much loved stuffed elephant was now in use to keep the antennas upright. Someone had even taken the care to sew its hands around the rods.

The bed's most interesting feature was its sound, however. It bumped and hissed, and an all too familiar whispering could be heard over the mid-day soap the TV had on. An angry, agitated hissing that only put the canned laughter into sharper contrast.

"Been keepin' me up all night, this one has. Take it, an' pay me." They owed him from last time, too, and his tone implied that with just enough force to hint at it, but clearly not enough to be an actual threat. Ben said this as he reached under the bed, pulling out a wooden box. It sat on the floor and shuddered, thumping back and forth.