June 15, 2009
Monday, 8pm
Sellaphix Apothecary, Knockturn Ally[1]

Second day in a row that Figaro found himself working a long day with his mother in the apothecary.  Zelda Sellaphix was holed up in the cramped upstairs office, still trying to find some way to conjure the right numbers.  Over six months out of business had all but crippled their finances, but a stalwart witch like Zelda Sellaphix wasn't about to give up her family's generations-old business without a fight.  But she couldn't do it alone, as she'd told Figaro countless times.  With little Frank staying with friends (as he'd be more underfoot than useful), Figaro had been put to work. 

Figaro was 16 and still an underage Wizard beholden to the traditional laws.  But as with many magical families living in magical areas, the actual practice of the law was fuzzy.  Fuzzy as the cobwebs in the rafters, as the dusty shelves and the mold on the expired dittany paste, all of which he had been permitted to clean with the help of his wand. 

It was approaching 8 o' clock and Figaro was shoulder deep in an old barrel.  He had a bandana tied around his face in an attempt to survive the fumes.  Flakes of black garlic skin were adhered to the inside in a layer an inch deep.  Zelda had deemed the barrel salvagable if only Figaro could buckle down and clean it.  For the smell, the shop door was ajar. 

Time after time, Figaro cast a scouring spell into the barrel at close range, slowly disintigrating the dried-on plant matter.

1.	Details at the wiki.

Adon would have knocked, had the door been closed.  As it was--ajar, with the overwhelming stench of molding garlic emanating outwards--Adon hesitated, hand resting on the doorframe--enjoying the last bit of dank Knockturn air, before stepping in.

Adon'd meant to stop by yesterday--to visit Figaro, but had instead spent the day talking his brother through the intricacies between bowties and cravats and ties for the wedding coming up in several days, and had finally summed it up quite easily enough for even Dreogan to understand:

It was Akiva's wedding. Do whatever the hell she wanted.

It was a nice little motto,p doing whatever anyone else wanted--but it didn't get Adon very far in life. Such as wanting to visit Figaro Sellaphix, the son of a man he'd recently sent to prison.  And wanting to support Sellaphix Apothecary--so long as it dealt straight...

But it was now Zelda Sellaphix's shop, and he'd have to do what she wanted.

And so, here he was. After work. To rather awkwardly ask permission to take a 16 year old out for drinks--butterbeer or fizz-o-la or some bland beverage.  Despite having finally advanced in his career--Adon couldn't help but feel this was some sort of regression.

Adon was jarred free from anything resembling introspection when Figaro popped up like a gopher from a barrel, a bandana across his face like a character from a bad western Jonas would probably have subjected him to.

Adon feigned surrender, holding his hands up as the boy blasted at the barrel, but said nothing.

Figaro didn't notice the Auror until he was inside.  Pulling his head, arm and wand from the barrel, he started to say through the makeshift mask, "Oi! You can't c-"

And then, recognizing who it was, Figaro pulled the bandana down and hid his wand behind the barrel.  Despite feeling the need to hide his juvenile crime, Figaro was grinning ear to ear.

"It's Auror Eleor! Didju get my pasta?[1]"  he asked immediately, still kneeling on the floor with the barrel.   Fig had been damn proud of the ironic little craft project, but had never got an owl back from the busy Auror.

Just then, the door opened on the upstairs level (closed against the smell) and Zelda Sellaphix stepped out onto the interior wrought iron balcony.  Zelda was not a tall woman, with a prominent nose, and grey and brown hair down to her shoulder.  And a look of profound suspicion on her face behind her reading glasses.

"We're closed,"  she said, although she could plainly see he was an Auror.  She vaguely recognized him, one of the many Aurors she'd become acquainted with during her husband's arrest and trials, and the times that she herself was questioned like a common criminal.  It would be honest to say there was no love lost between Zelda and the Aurors.  Bitter.  Angry.  Yes.  Stupid? No.  She knew Rafe was guilty.  The system served the people of wizarding Britain.  But failed the Sellaphixes. 

Figaro got to his feet when his mother appeared.  "No, mum.  'S all right.  I know him."

1.	Pasta art, owled to Adon Eleor on April 6, 2009.

Cheeky devil. Adon'd almost forgotten that that was why he'd liked him so much.  Adon grinned back. "Yes I did. I have it displayed on my 'frigerator," he proclaimed.

Actually, he had no idea where that thing was.  But Adon remembered fully enjoying it at the time...

"Though unicorns aren't really my thing. Next time, you could try for a minotaur. I hope you didn't make that in cl--" Adon's comments were cut short when he heard a door open, looked up, and saw Madame Sellaphix in her matriarchial glory.

Ah. Yes. They were closed. Adon pressed his lips together thoughtfully as he exhaled. 

"Madame Sellaphix," he addressed, looking up at the woman and inclining his head slightly in a formal sort of gesture.  This all felt a bit absurd--like a viscount making obeisances to a reigning monarch. Well--whatever had to be done.  "Adon Eleor--and I had thought you might be. Closed, I mean.  I was surprised to see the door open, for that reason."

His neck was starting to hurt, looking up as he was. "I had the pleasure of meeting Figaro, here while I was on patrol at Hogwarts.  Started talking a bit about career aspirations and the like--but I'm afraid I wasn't the best at keeping in contact. Thought that maybe--because he was back--I'd drop by; see if he'd want a butterbeer, and we could resume the conversation."

And now: time to offer the gracious out.  "But I see that you both have been busy--and it's late in the day. So perhaps I should swing by some other time."  An out and a threat. Adon's glance flickered over to Figaro.  He ventured a wink before  smiling upwards at the woman. Through all the sternness, she had to have either a soft spot for her son--or a desire to avoid further conversation with Aurors.

"Or--" he input more cheerily, "if you would like, I could stay and help for a bit."  Adon could see their ticket out the door with that statement.  Zelda Sellaphix did not seem a woman who'd want any more Aurors helping in the shop.

For all of Figaro's undisciplined put-on at school, for all his irreverence, his parents had trained him rather wall.  Anyone who knew Figaro from school might be surprised at the formality he displayed at home, how little he seemed to yammer on.  Even more so when he wanted something from his stern parents.  As the Auror went on with a very coy negotiation for Figaro's freedom from barrel scouring, Figaro shot him a glance of amazement.  Cheeky devil! So boldly, so cleverly did he address his mother Zelda Sellaphix.

Zelda herself wasn't so impressed.  But she was struck a little surprised.  Figaro had aspirations to be an Auror? Of all things?  With the constant struggle both the Sellaphixes and the professors had motivating Figaro to do the slightest bit of work, to show a smidgeon of focus, this wizard was saying that Figaro aspired to be an Auror?  She uncrossed her arms and placed each of her hands on the railing, looking once at her son (who was looking carefully stoic) and then again at the foreign-born Auror.

She wasn't sure how she felt about Figaro wanting to be an Auror, for that's what she assumed from how Eleor put things.  On one hand, she was humiliated and resentful of what had happened to her husband - to their family.  On the other, with Rafe gone Zelda was beginning to worry about the type of role-models the boy might attach himself to.  She knew how prone he was to influence, especially from his friends like Xavier Tawse and that Schlagenweit boy.  Figaro had even mentioned being involved with the student werewolf rights club.  All considered, a night out having career-minded conversations with an Auror was far better than any activity Figaro might choose for himself...

After staring down (at) the Auror for some sufficiently heavy moments, she straighted up and pursed her lips.

"Back home before midnight," she told Figaro, but still looking at the Auror.  Without any other comment, she disappeared back into the upstairs office. 

As soon as Figaro heard the office door click shut, he burst into a silent but exhuberant motion of triumph.  He pumped his fist in the air and sank down into a deep crouch all in one motion.  Standing up, he ghosted a punch towards the Auror's abdomen and danced away.  He stuck his hands behind his head and grinnned like an idiot at the older wizard.

"You're my bloody hero," he said in almost a whisper, being very careful not to make his mother regret her repreive from chores.  The pent up energy of toeing the line and the stress of finals was beginning to release as he continued to fidget around the cramped little shop.  He swung a kick at the big barrel, missing it intentionally.  Instead he set it up right and spun it on its edge, leading it to a corner out of the way.

"I was close to death in here.  Check the books for me - I think its illegal making someone who's just sat O.W.Ls. clean barrels." 

Midnight? Good gracious, what was he supposed to do to keep the kid occupied until midnight? No butterbeer could be 4-hours interesting.

Adon was distracted from his scheduling frenzy by Figaro's exhuberant display.  He'd definitely keep the kid out until midnight.  He had the Cool Auror title to prove.  Cool Aurors pushed the limits.  Cool Aurors--

Adon took an instinctive step back as the boy began to shadow box, taking a playful swipe at him. "Oh-ho," he muttered lowly, grinning.  "You want to start that, do you?"

"You're my bloody hero."

God, this was why he liked hanging with teenagers, sometimes.  You could do no wrong. Well, you really could--if you did anything that had some semblance to authoritative action, didn't make good on your promises, you didn't have any disastrous stories about girls you tried to kiss, and you didn't have a lot of money you could easily throw away on frivolous things to impress them.

Luckily, Adon really didn't have any of these things going against him at the moment.

"So," he said, watching as Fig, with enthusiasm, set his barrel aside.  "I'm guessing you didn't have a dish of blackened garlic flakes for dinner..."

He waved Figaro towards the door, not really caring that the boy smelled like, well, a walking apothecary.  Where he was now planning on going, it didn't really matter, anyhow.  "You ever get out much beyond Diagon and Knockturn? Heard of a place called MacDonald's?"

The summer evening was suddenly a place of brightness and adventure.  The tiny dingy skylight two stories up usually only showed a yellowy-grey sky, but Figaro could bloody fly out right now.  After righting the barrel he'd taken off the bandana from around his neck and was superficially wiping his hands and arms clean.

As Adon Eleor began talking about where they were going to get a meal, Figaro was just pulling on a clean shirt over the smudged white undershirt he'd had on.  It was a Falcons jersey - said WIEDMAN on the back.  He chucked the bandana up onto the counter and followed Auror Eleor's gesture towards the door.

"What?" he asked.  "McDonald's?" 

Fig led the way out of the Apothecary into Knockturn.  He shook his head, 'no'.  His family was magic folk - his grandmother was a muggle, but they lived in a mostly magical neighborhood in north London.  If he wasn't in school, he was up at the house, visiting friends, or here in Diagon.  He didn't exactly go 'muggling' for fun, or even know any muggles. 

"That's the muggle place with the 'M'," he said.  "We're gonna go? You've got muggle money? I think the last time I had some I overpaid for a Coke at a corner shop.  No matter what the numbers say, doesn't make sense that the paper money's worth more than coin.  Ol' muggle must have thought I was slow or something.  S'funny," he chattered on, stringing together more than three sentences for the first time since being home.

Prattling on, Figaro was as free as a blackbird cruising up Knockturn Ally side-by-side with an Auror up towards Diagon.  Figaro had been wondering a great deal now that he was nearly 17, wondering when he was finally going to get taller and fill out.  He'd kill to be able to show up at school next year not looking like a 4th year.  Not that Figaro was ever too hung up on his appearance, but just being around the Auror reminded him of how young he must look in comparison. 

"Sure, I have got Muggle money," Adon said, shrugging his shoulders.  He listened to Figaro's story with apparent amusement, grinning.

Kids. Their naivete was endearing sometimes.

"I don't bother with coins or paper. I've got this," he said, producing a small square of brown plastic. "See?" he said, a bit pleased with himself.  They had asked him to get one of these. It was invitation only. The best thing Americans had ever done for him. Besides train his men in the IDF and heavily subsidize all of their weaponry.  "It has got my name on it."

By now, they were nearly out of Diagon. "The reason why Muggle coins are so cheap is because they're not real gold or silver.  Have you looked at them up close? It's the same in thing in Israel, actually. I won't get it. But some Muggles I do know say it's nice--to only have to carry around paper, rather than all the coins. Lighter and all that," he said casually, stopping at the brick wall to inspect Figaro. "Sufficiently Muggle. I don't think anyone'll ask about who Weidman is..."

Crossing the threshold into the Muggle world, and holding his breath, as he always--subconsciously did--Adon blinked, looking back at Figaro.  "You don't have a problem with going all Muggle tonight, do you? Because I was thinking we could go--" he gave a bit of a cryptic smile, knowing that keeping a secret would probably drive the kid nuts. And lead to a round of amusing--if not annoying--questions.  "--somewhere else after MacDonald's."

Muggles and their strange-ass ways of doing things.  Not coin, not paper, but plastic?  Figaro looked at the card with understandable skepticism.  "A-don," he recited. "Hmm."

Fig sauntered up the windy cobbled road feeling like a boss, head up, hands in his pockets.  Fig was living in it.  Night was falling and he just drank it in, not thinking about tomorrow, or even the next moments.  He was good at that.  It's what kept him so cheerful and accepting most of the time.  It was a state of zen most wouldn't expect to find in such an unfocused persona as Figaro Sellaphix.

He shot a grin at a familiar face passing by, as if to say to them, 'Yea. Auror.'

They were at the wall before he knew it and found himself under inspection.

"What? Oh, yea. Lucky they dress normal these days..." He was relieved that he wouldn't have to dress up in costumey muggle clothes - always made him feel like a fancy dress party.

He patted down the wrinkles in the fabric on his front and scratched his hair into a proper toussle, as Adon Eleor went on about the plans he had.

"Mmm-mm," he shook his head in the negative, "Muggling's fine." He said it casual-like, but he was jazzed.  He never got to do that.

But suddenly the Auoror stopped.  Figaro knew that look!

"No! No! Where!" His face erupted in an uncontained smile as he begged to know.  "Tell me, what is it?  I never get to do this shite, mate.  Is it the movies? The Underground? C'moooooon!..."

"I know. You wouldn't think anything that felt this cheap would be worth much. But let me tell you. This thing is worth a lot." Adon knew. Because he'd purchased a lot of food, a lot of clothes, his monthly cell phone charges, and one expensive car repair on Jonas' clunker.

He was considering using the magic card to buy Jonas a new car, next time that happened. Apparently, all you had to do at the end of the year was pay 150 pounds.  Which didn't sound too shabby. He almost felt bad, taking advantage of that kind of stupidity.

Adon shoved the rectangular plastic back into his pocket with his wizardy coins, catching a none-too-proud glance that Figaro sent to another wizard--probably in his year, or a bit younger.  It made Adon smile a bit more broadly. It made him feel a bit more proud of this idea, somehow. He'd be the coolest man alive in just a few moments.  Especially when he watched Figaro nearly wriggle with anticipation for the night.

The movies. The underground. Both options that should have been obvious to him about 45 seconds earlier, when he'd decided upon his plan--and probably better than what he had in mind. But Figaro didn't need to know that; besides, he couldn't say "yes" to one of those--those were already chosen; predictability was never superior. Smug smile still affixed, Adon gave a single shake of his head, looking upwards. "No. Not the cinema. Not the tube." Adon was proud he'd picked up the English lingo so well. Apparently, it was not a tube you went into on a train. It was THE tube. Which was not related, as it turned out, to youtube. Though apparently televisions had tubes in them--cathode ray tubes--where the name came from.  Muggles needed to stop naming things the same name. It was incredibly unoriginal.

"Just a place that I go to from time to time after work. Your shoes comfortable?" he asked with a shit-eating grin.  "You can move around well in those clothes, yeh?" He grinned. MacDonald's was not far.  Dreogan, who had spent a while as practically a Muggle in America, had recommended it.  Said it was good. THough, walking past the various Pret-A-Mangers, Adon wondered if there'd be something better.

Still, Dreogan did seem to have more discerning taste than Jonas. It could be worse. They could be going to Wagamama.

Golden arches were in sight. They were in a place called 'The Strand," and Adon was feeling prety proud as he gestured grandly to the neon. "So?" he asked briefly before saying, "Let's go in. Hope you're hungry." In a quieter voice, he said "And don't ask the Muggles why they keep their condiments separate from everything else; they don't like being accused of bad service."  Though, last time Adon had loosed his barrage of questions on the teller, the man had finally given him a free soda just to shut up. Best. Soda. Ever.

Figaro had been duly perplexed when Adon Eleor had inquired after his shoes, if he was dressed to move and Figaro couldn't fathom what the muggle had that would require such exciting preparation.  Fauna would know - she was muggleborn, wasn't she?  It was killing his brain to not know, but the sensation of getting to be surprised was somehow enjoyable.  Like the pins and needles of a Dead Limb Jinx (much less sinister than it sounded). 

"You love this," Figaro said with a feigned disapproving look; a squint of his eyes, a shake of his head.  "Slimey Auror tactics..."

But he followed along and did his best 'Can't-be-bothered' impression as he strolled free as day, merry as a lark down Charing Cross then up to The Strand.  He'd been here before, but never alone, and never with such a light-hearted chaperon.  Whenever his family walked the broader streets of London, it was always in that hurried, keep-your-mouth-shut situation.  Probably the safest bet with a loudmouth like Figaro, rattling on since the day he was born about every thought and question that came into his mind.

The streets were wide here, and the slick grey buildings stretched up and up in concrete and glass - very different from the knobbly roads and old buildings in the wizarding neighborhood.  Glass store-fronts were lit up with bright advertisements all over.  The street was busy with cars and people - all of them had to have been muggles.  He found himself lagging behind just a little bit, as every detail seemed to capture his attention.  He had unfettered access and he aimed to take full advantage.  But his childhood training was more or less still in effect and his mouth was shut until they finally arrived at McDonalds. [1]

"What? Okay." Figaro looked over his shoulder when Adon lowered his voice, still feeling quite conspicuous.  "Right."

Figaro stepped up into the short queue and with furrowed brow started reading from the menu.  There were burgers, chips - but they were calling them fries, chicken and fish sandwiches, salads - all kinds of stuff.  All lit up above the tellers in brighter-than life colors.  The smell inside was... incredible. 

He leaned into Adon with his voice still low.  "They've got a Happy Meal.  What's that - how do muggles even do that without Cheering Charms?  That 'physics' or what?"  Figaro had no idea what Physics was, only that it was advanced muggle 'science' that Sasha had studied.  Not that he'd been made at all happy by it.

"Bollocks, lookit that one."  He pointed to a picture of a giant burger, made of multiple layers of meat, buns and even vegetables.  "Big. Mac... Is it that big?"  The picture depicted the Big Mac at least 8 inches tall on the placard.   

1.	Street View It - GoogleMaps.  Hailed as apparently the worst McDonalds' in London, patronized only by tourists, and, apparently Wizarding folk who don't know any better.

"I think it's a subliminal command.  Muggle Marketing--people think they'll actually be happy if they eat it. You find this with Chinese food places particularly." He ran through the list of places he knew of: Yum-Yum Cafe. Tasteful Delight. Delicious Gourmet...

As they approached the register, Adon's face was starting to feel greasy, just by proximity to the deep friers.  Maybe they should have grabbed Chinese.

"Big mac's the size of your fist," Adon said, demonstrating a fist and taking a fake swing at Fig.  "Pictures aren't very accurate. They don't really move, either." Though the MacDonald's menu in Jerusalem--Ben Yehuda Street--did. Muggles were catching up fast. And in ways, lightyears ahead of mages.

"That's what I'll have," he told the bored, sullen looking teen at the register. Wonderful place about this place--they'd have that expression no matter what you did, so you could start getting bossy. "Big Mac. Supersize. Coke. Fries. Ketchup and salt--"

"Condiments are behind you."

Adon grit his teeth. "Fine." He looked expectantly at Figaro, giving a commiserating smile for putting up with having to not only stand and order, but walk an additional 5 feet to serve yourself.

Fig was still glancing at the menus. "He'll have the same," he input. "And a chocolate shake."

"£9.50."

With an air of confidence bordering on arrogance, Adon held his card out with a wide smile. Nonplussed and unimpressed, the cashier swiped it. Waited.

"Declined."

"What?"

5 minutes, 10 angry customers in line, 18 swear words, and 1 managerial intervention later, Adon found that the only other thing accepted as tender at MacDonald's besides cash and--when they weren't declining it, credit cards--was a badge signifying you were with the Met.  Apparently if looked like you could take the security guards out, and you were the police, there was just no getting rid of you.

They gave him a piece of paper to prove that he was number 35 in their affections, and a small clock at the counter ticked away the seconds until their food arrived.  Food finally in hand and several choice words later, Adon steered Figaro towards a set of plastic tables and chairs.  “So,” he tried to input cheerily as he laid out the moving parts of his meal: drink, chips, burger, and the serviettes, seven packets of ketchup, 2 packets of salt, straw he’d scrounged up himself.  Ripping open a packet of salt with his teeth, he began to pour it liberally onto the chips. “What have you been up to these days? School’s out. You get a nice long break from macaroni unicorns, now.  What are your plans?  They don’t all involve garlic, do they?”

Figaro watched in brow-furrowed confusion and awe as Adon Eleor haggled over the food.  Managers were called, credentials were flashed and Figaro found himself wondering how anything ever got done in the Muggle world - or was it just them? In an entirely foreign place just blocks from everything that was familiar.  Maybe he should have taken Muggle Studies.  Back when he was a young and stupid third-year he couldn't have fathomed even daily life in Muggle London would be so different.  He didn't even know if he should be embarrassed or impressed by Adon's navigation of the quagmire.  Behind him a queue of people seemed to be getting impatient, and soon enough they were sat down at a table, munching on dinner.

The food smelled amazing and everything was glistening.  It didn't resemble the pictures that closely, the Big Mac.  It had all the parts - he lifted the layers inspecting the contents - but it was much... flatter than the picture.  It was again familiar and alien at the same time.  He'd had burgers and fries many times before, but never from McDonald's.

And the smell... it was amazing.

He took up the Big Mac and took a bite, answering Adon Eleor as he chewed.

"Bollocks...!" he shook his head, with a wry grin.  "Summer's boring as hell.   Mum's making me have a job and since I didn't look or go to Career Fair or anything, it's the home shop I'm stuck in.  Doesn't even pay."

As he chewed and talked, his gaze kept wandering away from their small table to the other people in the restaurant.  There were all kinds of strange people, and not a single one of them seemed to care about he and his Auror friend.  Fig and Adon were among the least strange people of those coming, going and eating Big Macs.

"My plans were to get a girlfriend - at least for the summer - but that's not happening.  Plan to go to Spellpunk a few times, which is just lovely... but everyone'll in Egypt, lucky arseholes.  Did take a girl out over spring holiday though.  Went to Calaveras - ever been there? It's fantastic.  Filthy posh," he prattled on easily. [1]

1.	Edit:  Changed summer content - I mixed up the date.

"You're only two days into it!" Adon said, pursing his lips in feigned agitation before grinning.  "There's still time to turn it around. " He began to munch on some French Fries--which tasted too greasy to be French.  Ridiculous Irish eating establishments. Or was it Scottish? "Well. If it makes you feel better--" he slathered on more ketchup, "most of your sucker-colleagues got roped into non-paying Ministry internships, too..."

He considered Figaro, squinting one eye slightly.  "Though we do need  an apprentice coffee courier or two on Level Two..." He chuckled, apparently amused with himself. "Accepting applications, in fact.  If you prefer wrestling Ministerial owls and odd jobs over scouring garlic flakes, let me know."

If Adon wasn't grinning before, he certainly was at the mention of the boy's romantic plans.  "The seventh year not work out? Sorry, brother.  Older women--let me tell you. You got off easy if you got out early. Expectations are just too high."  He tilted his head, regarding the boy.  He reminded Adon quite a bit of himself--exuberant, active, a bit impatient... always knowing just where to go to be cool; except this all seemed conscious.

If Figaro Sellaphix wanted to masquerade for a day as the "cool kid," Adon would not begrudge him that. Fact was, a few weeks with the kid and he'd be there by the end of summer.  "Spellpunk--seems a good place to party. Can't say I've been to either Spellpunk or Calaveras, though."  Red cloaks were certainly not a welcome sight at Calaveras.  It sent employees scurrying in to the dark recesses of the place like cockroaches; which was, most Aurors knew, an indication of what the establishment might be.  But, until one had compelling enough cause to upend a business--like the Sellaphix Apothecary--compelling cause, evidence, and an incident needed to provoke action. Until that point--constant vigilance.

As the son of a Knockturnite, Figaro was something Adon had never quite been: a member of the underground. Wittingly or no, Figaro had access to places that an Auror--a known Auror--could not go. There were the occasional individuals, like Chris, the secret-Auror, or Jonas the once-not-Auror, who could bridge that gap and enter that community. Everyone else was on the outside, analyzing movements, intelligence, and events rather than experiencing or shaping them.

"Filthy posh," Adon smirked.  "Sounds like my kind of place--I may need to make a visit sometime. No MacDonald's, then? They serve you ketchup on your own table?  Probably a good place to take a girl. Impress her. Why no second date?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Was it the place or the girl?"

Because, to a teenage boy with a fragile ego, it needed to be one or the other--one could never suspect it was the fault of the boy. 

Whether Figaro would take notice or not, he was soaking in the attention.  The completely interested, casual attention of the Auror.  There was no agenda, there was no judgement, and Figaro didn't catch a whiff of stuffy-arse grown-up off him at all.  And in having all the attention he could ask for, he wasn't having to go to obnoxious lengths to get it. 

Fig listened on, scoffing at the idea of those sorry arseholes fetching coffee all day for free.  Like hell he'd ever do that - "not unless I got to see an interrogation, anyway," he'd added.  He remembered his career counselling session with Professor Reid and how she didn't believe him when he suggested he wanted to become an Auror.  But then, he'd done it to bait her.[1]

He gave Adon Eleor a patient sort of look when he said he'd never been to Spellpunk - what was he? Forty? It wasn't for old people.  But Calaveras?  He was surprised at that.  Everyone went there.

For as desperate to please as Figaro seemed sometime, he was perplexedly nonchalant about the whole dating girls thing.  I mean, yes.  He'd probably had his heart a bit crushed when the whole Fauna Blake thing didn't happen.  But Sophie? Reggie?  He hadn't taken that hard.  It was all kind of a laugh now.

He broke out in a grin at more talk about his date with Reggie and he leaned back to tip in his chair.  He shook his head as he balanced on two chair legs, just barely holding the table to keep the pose.  (A skill well-honed in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.)

"Shit, mate, I'll bet you ten galleons that Reggie didn't even think it was a date.  She's cold as ice.  I mean like - she's nice, right? But try and get her to crack a smile and you're in for some work.  Ice.  Smart, pretty, great person, whatever, but she's not much of a talker."

He shrugged, clearly still a little perplexed by the whole affair.  He gave a sort of scoffing laugh, "You know what finally made her actually emote?"  He set is chair legs on the ground, to lean in, and half whisper.

"When Cinaed Tawse strolls in like he owns the place.  Bold as brass."

He tipped back up on his chair, and shrugged.  "If it wasn't for that, I'd have thought Reggie'd have started reading a book or something."

1.	"He furrowed his brow thoughtfully, and with a trace of that smile still lingering, he said, "I'd like to be an Auror." - D Is For Dreadful