"And…how do you feel about your involvement with the Prophet, given the paper's history with the Death Eater uprising?"

"You're aware I left the Prophet while they were in control."

"Well—yes, but you were still working there during the months leading up to You-Know-Who's return, during which time the paper was printing largely false allegations against the Potter boy—"

"No—"

"No?"

"No. I was still at the Prophet—as a foreign affairs correspondent—after Voldemort's return, which the Ministry refused to recognize until a good year after it occurred. I left the Prophet following Albus Dumbledore's death, when the Death Eaters started to take over."

"To go on the run."

"That's right."

"But it sounds like your involvement with the Prophet during that time still bothers you."

"Well, it does."

"Would you say the paper has…lost credibility, then?"

"Lost credibility? Absolutely. I'm pretty reluctant these days to tell people where I work. The first question I get is unfailingly something about Harry bloody Potter."

Two days later, Cassius found himself in Carmine's office.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?" Carmine slapped the morning copy of The Hippogriff Post down in front of him. Cassius could see himself on the front page, leaning forward in his chair, talking animatedly to the interviewer. After a moment his picture settled back, pursing its lips, having said its peace. That must've been the Potter comment. The title didn't sugar-coat things: "Daily Prophet Losing Face: Interview with Caius Cassius, Foreign Affairs Correspondent."

"You are supposed to work for this paper, not to slander it."

"The paper has lost credibility," Cassius replied shortly. "I'm not saying anything our readership hasn't."

"Of course we've lost credibility," Carmine snapped. "We were You-Know-Who's mouthpiece—I would expect nothing less than a loss of credibility. We are trying to rebuild, not shout our failings from the rooftops."

"Do you know how many people actually read the Prophet nowadays? You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who does more than scan the front page because they've neglected to cancel their subscription. As far as I'm concerned, that interview is at least going to get the Prophet a little attention."

"I pay you to write news, Cassius, not to talk to interns about how self-righteous you are. What did she use, a quick quotes quill?"

"Just how stupid do you think I am?"

"Enough to produce this." Carmine waved a furious hand at the paper, then pinched the bridge of her nose. "…I want you out of this office."

Cassius raised his eyebrows.

"Merlin's beard, not permanently. I couldn't fire you, not with this floating around. Don't think I wouldn't like to." Carmine turned away. "Take a vacation. I don't care where. Just bury your head in the sand so I can clean up your mess."

"And just how long should I 'bury my head in the sand'?" Cassius asked, tightly.

"You be the judge of that."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Now get out."

Cassius stood, snatched up his coat, and left.

The scroll header was neatly printed, marking every twelve inches: International Wizarding Tribunal for the United Kingdom. Marcus Brutus' handwriting filled the first sixty, but he had long since stopped taking notes. He sat apart from the wizengamot—fifty witches and wizards, all clad in purple court robes—and the defendant: a man in chains, watching the proceedings with a bored expression. He had a clear view of the witness: a young witch, crying and choking out her testimony in French. The translation appeared and dissipated before him in midair.

The witch fell silent, and placed her head in her hands. Brutus watched, drained, as the Chief Warlock stood, dismissed the witness, and announced the starting time for the following day. Eight-thirty. Merlin's beard.

Brutus followed the crowd as the wizengamot filed out into the hallway. Hot, end-of-day sunshine full streamed in through the windows. Brutus sat on the stone bench across the hall and shut his eyes as the footsteps and murmuring of the wizengamot grew fainter. He rolled up the sleeves of his court robes. The ICW had a much simpler system for replicating the weather than the London Ministry. They mimicked conditions aboveground, rather than leaving it up to the weather team. Brutus would have to bring the notion home. He was sick of getting slammed with hurricanes whenever the weather department was vying for a raise.

Footsteps sounded again down the hall. Brutus didn't bother to look. Someone had forgotten a scroll or a quill, perhaps. It seemed an eternity before they reached him—and stopped. He opened his eyes and glanced up. He blinked. "Cassius?"

Cassius, in a button-down and muggle jeans, grinned and gestured to Brutus' court robes. "You know, I like this," he said. "It's very official."

Brutus stood and pulled him into a hug. "What are you doing here? You're not covering the tribunal, are you?"

"That," Cassius replied, as they separated, "is a long story. Best told over dinner and firewhiskey. You are done for the day, aren't you? They said at the front desk you'd be done."

Brutus laughed. "Yes, I'm done."

"Well come on, then, I'm buying."

They got directions at the front desk to a pub in the financial district. It was underground, dimly lit. They occupied a booth in the corner by the false window, portraying the dark, near-empty street above them.

"You haven't been reading the Prophet lately, have you?" Cassius twisted his glass in one hand.

"I'm afraid not. I've been swamped with the trials. I'm sure I could get a post-owl to deliver copies to the hotel, but…" Brutus trailed off with an apologetic grimace.

"No, don't bother. You're not missing much these days. Bloody lot of arse-covering prigs."

"By that, I take it you mean your editors?"

"Mm." Cassius took a gulp of firewhiskey.

Brutus smiled wanly. "Is that why you're here?"

"More or less. …I gave an interview about the Prophet…made a few remarks Carmine wasn't too pleased about."

"Oh?"

Cassius waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing new, just that it's all been downhill since Voldemort…how the Ministry refused to recognize Voldemort's return when it happened…"

"Well, that's not pleasant, but it's accurate—"

"Might've let slip the phrase 'Harry bloody Potter,'" Cassius muttered, taking another evasive sip.

Brutus paused. "Ah."

"I've been instructed to 'bury my head in the sand' while they 'clean up my mess.' So I thought I'd pay you a visit, see how the trials are going."

Brutus grimaced again. "Well…they're going. No crises yet, but…it wears on you."

"I can imagine."

Brutus nodded. "I'm afraid I probably won't be much fun while you're here—the court runs all day, and The Hague isn't much for nightlife, unless you're interested in muggle bars."

Cassius laughed. "I'd probably cock it up. Risk international wizarding secrecy, or something like that. Carmine thinks so, anyway."

"Carmine's just protecting her territory," Brutus yawned. "One doesn't exactly inherit the Daily Prophet and expect life to be easy, even without the last eight years." He glanced at Cassius. "Although you don't exactly make her life much easier."

"No," Cassius agreed, finishing his drink. "That's not my job."

"Fair enough." Brutus yawned again. "Merlin's beard. I should probably get going… How long will you be in town?"

Cassius shrugged. "I wasn't given a specified return date, so I suppose that's up to me."

Brutus flagged down the waiter, who brought the bill. "You haven't got a place to stay, have you?"

"Not yet. I could always hole up here, of course."

"You could sleep on my couch." Brutus stood. "There's a pull-out bed."

"I wouldn't want to intrude—"

"Not at all; you think I'm going to make you pay for a grubby tavern room?"

"Well…" Cassius paused, meeting Brutus' eyes.

The waiter approached to collect the bill and thanked them in Dutch. Cassius looked away first. They left with cursory nods, heading into the dark stairwell that led above ground. In the night air, Brutus stretched, and Cassius followed him up the street.

"I suppose if it's no trouble."