Sorry for the delay! I would love to guarantee the next chapter will be posted sooner, but...I must not tell lies. If you're looking for something else to read, check out cgner and Ghostofbambi. Both are fabulous authors, both have stories going at the moment, and both better at updating than I ;)
James woke up Friday morning in a spiffing mood. He hummed 'Tubthumping' to himself as he waltzed around the kitchen, eating cold sausages with his fingers. He ignored Sirius' sullen expression and dark looks as he poured himself tea and cut mold off the bread. He donned his favorite teal button-up (un-ironed) and practically skipped to the bus stop, replaying in his mind the delicious details of the night before. Lily Evans, he now knew, was a goddess among women, and a terrible flirt. He had certainly not missed the way she had scooted her barstool closer to his or touched his arm when she asked him a question, or smiled at him…Eh. So perhaps a less self-assured man would have second guessed himself. James was no such man. He was 110% certain that everything Lily had done last night had meant something – had meant, in fact, that she was so into him. James felt rather smug.
He hopped onto the bus, smiling jovially at the driver and grabbed hold of the overhead bar. He gave himself the bus ride to continue his Lily Evans fantasies, but once he stepped off and walked the final block to work, he knew he had to get his head in the game. Last night had not only been productive on the romance front – he also had an idea for his next story pitch. He bounded up the stairs to his office. The outer doors were somewhat shabby, but nothing about them suggested the chaos one would find beyond. The offices of the Quibbler were, to put it simply, disorganized. Unsold stacks of the magazine were piled in every corner; many of them were older than James was and had collected a posse of dust bunnies. James' fellow writers were hunched over their keyboards and surrounded by a general clutter of sweet wrappers, crusty plates, and crumpled article drafts. James breezed past them, calling out greetings. He took a moment to dump his bag on his own swivel chair and then to dig his phone out of his pocket to leave on his desk. His first stop was Xenophilius Lovegood's office, and he knew from bitter experience that any sort of electronic device was banned in that office due to Xeno's unshakeable fear that he was being bugged.
It was Xeno's deep-seated suspicion of the government that had led him to where he was today. James suspected he'd been indoctrinated in the 1960s, and had spent most of the 70s researching the conspiracy theories that were his passion. In the 1980s, frustrated by the narrow-mindedness and ignorance of the people of Britain, he'd started a publication – the Quibbler - to alert the general public to the complex webs of power that bound their elected figures to a variety of underground militias, secret societies, and alien overseers. The magazine had floundered for a while, unable to find a large enough audience to sustain itself, until he'd met Pandora.
According to some of the older writers, she'd been an incredibly lovely woman. She'd been fascinated by Xenophilius' theories but had possessed enough sense to see Quibbler sales weren't putting food on the table. It had been her idea to begin marketing the Quibbler as a spoof magazine, something she had never entirely communicated to her husband. Sales went up, she began hiring comedy writers, and Xeno remained happily oblivious. All went well until she died, poisoned by her unfortunate predilection for food foraging, eight years before James was hired. Xeno was devastated, and he doubled down on his work, adding suspicion of medical establishments to his already long list. He continued to be ignorant of the arrangement Pandora had made with his chief editor before she died, which ensured the continuation of the Quibbler as a comedy magazine with Xeno as the symbolic head. Strictly speaking, Alfie Pritchard was James' boss, but James liked to clear his articles with Xeno too, so the man would feel involved.
He proceeded straight through to Xeno's office without knocking. Knocking wasn't really an option when entering Xenophilius Lovegood's office; he wouldn't have heard anyway. Sometimes there was a gramophone playing; sometimes Xeno couldn't hear over the furious clatter of his typewriter as he pounded out an article. Sometimes James would simply find him staring off into space, apparently oblivious to mundane sounds such as knocking. In any case, James had learned to let himself in.
Today, Xeno was standing by the window, which was coated in a fairly thick layer of grime. James wondered whether the cleaners that came up to the office at night had just given up on this particular room. He had a pair of binoculars pressed to his eye, and was craning his neck to spot something up in the sky. He was also smoking a pipe that was certainly in violation of the buildings' smoking restrictions.
"Morning, sir."
Xeno didn't acknowledge him. James tried again.
"It's a beautiful day out, isn't it? Threatening rain, but not quite there. Perfect."
"Come here."
James moved obediently over to the window.
"Look at that!"
Xeno offered James the binoculars, the strap of which was still looped around his neck. This meant looking through the binoculars forced James cheek-by-jowl with Xeno. He smelled like garlic and coffee. James peered through the binoculars, not bothering to adjust them or strain particularly hard to see through them. He suspected he already knew what Xeno was trying to show him.
"You see them?"
"Yep," James lied.
"There's more of them this morning."
"Must be something going on."
"My thoughts precisely."
James felt that he had spent a reasonable amount of time looking through the binoculars and handed them back to Xeno, who balanced them back on the windowsill and moved to sink into his desk chair, his forehead resting on the tips of his fingers.
"Those aren't just harmless trails of jet exhaust, James."
"No sir," James agreed. He had heard this particular theory many times before.
"They're full of gas, James. Population control. Mind control. That's what they're after."
"Very possibly, sir."
Xeno's eyes slid out of focus as his gaze returned to the window. James waited few moments to be polite, then said, "So, sir. I've got a new idea for an article. I think you're going to like this one."
"Mmm."
"It's about a corrupt biotech company."
That seemed to rouse Xeno somewhat.
"Biotech. Those scumbags."
"Yes. Well it's this company called T.M. Riddle. They've got this very sketchy founder – I think it could make a great character piece."
"You know that they've found a cure for cancer. They just keep it from the public so they can keep selling us drugs."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'll uncover that story if I can dig into Riddle a bit."
"Of course, of course."
James could see he was losing Xeno's attention again, and he had just gotten up to leave when he said, "That's why I like you, James. You're out to uncover the truth. People have got to know – they have a right to know – the truth."
"Yes, sir."
"It's like that article you wrote last month on the lizard people. Do you know, James, even I didn't know about that. But it makes sense. It explains so much. I'd like to see you write a follow-up. Trace the transfer of the power of the deep state from human hands to the lizards. I'm sure there was some sort of power struggle that went on right under our noses. But people just don't see…That took some real investigative journalism to uncover."
"Yes, sir," said James, feeling not the slightest twinge of guilt that he had concocted that particular story while lounging around his sitting room with Sirius, completely shitfaced.
"I do sometimes wonder…"
James waited several long moments for Xeno to finish this sentence, before deciding that was his cue to leave. He rose again and, this time, Xeno didn't stop him, already rifling through a teetering pile of books piled up by the window.
James cleared the story with his real editor in far less time; Alfie Pritchard was a man of few spoken words, but he had a knack for biting satire. He sat down at his desk and snapped on his bulky, noise-cancelling headphones. Each earpiece had a label reading "Bug off" courtesy of the label-maker Sirius had been the proud owner of for exactly one week. James was exceptionally fond of those headphones.
For the next few hours he lost himself in research. When most people learned about James' job, they jealously assumed that it involved little more than coming up with jokes. However, as James liked to pontificate when he was inebriated and feeling undervalued, the job of a comedy writer required finesse. Sure, there were those short stories he whipped up as a space filler, but the feature pieces had to have something more – they had to touch a nerve with the public. They had to have a basis in fact; or, more accurately, in what collective opinion considered fact. Corruption stories, such as the one James was setting out to write, were an old fallback, especially when the central personage was such a spoofable character. But James wanted to do more than write a straightforward corruption piece. His instinct, plus a general suspicion of the employees of T.M. Riddle, told him there was more nastiness going on there, and he savored the chance to get paid to uncover it. And so he googled.
Unfortunately, by noon he had uncovered frustratingly little. T.M. Riddle certainly spawned a lot of rumors on conspiracy sites the likes of which Xeno frequented, but James didn't feel like he had been able to understand what, in the broad world of biotech, they actually did. He had to force himself to stop because he had three space fillers to finish by five that evening, but during a quick coffee break, he sent texts for reinforcements. His dad responded immediately, "Yes! Bring the lads." Peter and Remus had both answered in the affirmative by the time James returned to his desk. He could see that Sirius had read the text, but he never responded. It didn't matter. Sirius was often sullen, but James was laid back enough that it bounced right off him.
He was reasonably productive for the rest of the day, only taking two breaks to scroll through Lily's facebook page, and by five he had emailed the articles to his editor and breezed out the door. It was still early, so he shot off a text to Peter that he would meet him at his office, and set off to walk the two miles there. The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, it was Friday, and James was feeling good about himself and at peace with the world.
Peter was waiting outside his office, sitting on a bench and absorbed in something on his phone. He jumped a little when James took a seat next to him.
"Evening, Pete."
"James! Hey, what's up. Just give me a minute, I've almost beat this level."
James, of course, immediately crowded in for a look.
"Level 3? Pathetic! I'm on at least level 5!"
Peter was too immersed to answer, so James continued to peer over his shoulder until he'd finished with a loss.
"Ah, better luck next time mate."
"You were jostling me!"
James laughed, getting to his feet.
"So, Pete, any plans for the weekend? Hot dates? Drunken debacles? Mildly illegal misadventures?"
"Well, my birthday's Tuesday, so - "
"Fuck me, your birthday's this Tuesday!? Why in God's name didn't you say anything?"
"Well, I don't know. I didn't want to…be a bother."
"A bother? A bother! A Maurauder's birthday is a cause for celebration of the highest order! I can't believe – bloody disgrace is what it is. We're pulling together a party This. Weekend."
Half of James' brain immediately jumped to Lily – this would be the perfect opportunity to see her again. And in a more…relaxed setting. But maybe this weekend wouldn't be good for her. She had just had a long week. He immediately amended himself.
"Well, maybe not this weekend. Last minute's harder to do now we've all got proper jobs. And we want to have maximum attendance. Better make it next weekend. That'll still be your birthday week."
James slowed down long enough to register Peter hadn't said anything.
"So…Pete? What'd'ya say?"
"Yeah, er, next weekend would be great. Thanks, Prongs."
James smiled at his old school nickname.
"You got it Wormtail. Hey, mate, so what's up with you? We haven't caught up in weeks."
James passed the rest of the walk to the bus stop with half his mind on Peter's long-winded complaints about his upstairs neighbors and half plotting the best way to invite Lily to Peter's birthday. A casual text would be fine, but why not step it up a notch? He was James Potter, after all, and he had never settled for 'fine'. Maybe bake her a cake and drop by work with it? He immediately dismissed this as both too 90s sitcom and too much work.
His schemings were finally cut short when they arrived in the block of fancy penthouses where his father lived. James let them in with his spare key. They were a little early so he was surprised to see that Sirius was already there, lounging on a slightly dusty loveseat with a glass of scotch in front of him. James' father was sitting in the armchair opposite, chuckling at something Sirius had said. He got to his feet when James and Peter walked in, greeting Peter with a handshake and James with a one-armed hug.
"It's been a while since you've all been by. Good to see you, Pete."
"Now you know we all just came for Euphemia's cooking. Since she's been gone…" Sirius trailed off, pointedly failing to greet James and Peter.
"Sirius you wound me. Where's Remus?"
"He'll be here," James said carelessly, leaning down to swipe Sirius' scotch.
"Oi!"
"Ah, so now you pay attention to me," James snorted, draining the scotch.
"I would apologize to you, Sirius, but you're as much of an attention hog as James here is," Fleamont said.
Sirius looked deeply aggrieved and stalked off to the kitchen to get more scotch. Fleamont and James chuckled.
Remus arrived just as the chicken finished cooking. James planned to let everyone tuck into their food and catch up a bit before he brought up the topic of Riddle. He was also watching the wine bottle, hoping his father might lose some of his discretion as the night wore on. To his surprise, Sirius was the first to raise the subject.
"So, Mr. Potter. James and I were hoping you might dish up a little gossip with this fine chicken."
James shouldn't have been surprised. He and Sirius were always in sync, even when Sirius got pissy.
"Well, we'll have to see about that. I know you've got an unrivalled nose for dirt, Sirius."
"Riddle. What is that fucker up to and why's he such a creep? He was all up on James' girl the other night."
His father raised his eyebrow at James, who merely grinned proudly back.
"Your girl, James…?"
"Only a matter of time, Dad."
"I don't even want to know." He turned back to Sirius. "Well, as to why he's such a creep, I have no answers. You'd have to find his mother and ask her. As to what he's up to…there I can be of more assistance." He paused to drink deeply from his wine glass. James had not inherited his flair for dramatics from the ether.
"Tell me, boys, have you heard of something called CRISPR?"
Sirius, James, and Remus all furrowed their brows.
"I might've read an article once," Remus said.
James glanced at Peter; the fourth member of their group was staring down at his plate, looking uncomfortable.
"Well, I only know what I've researched since Lucius Malfoy stopped by to pay me a visit and brag about their earth shattering research. We could do with your mother the biologist here to explain it, but I'll give it my best shot. Some millions of years ago, bacteria developed an enzyme to use as a defense against viruses. When the virus attacks, the bacteria sends this enzyme out to splice very exact sections of the virus' DNA and insert them into the bacteria's own DNA. That way, if the bacteria survives the attack, both it and its descendants will have an ingrained memory of that virus – a mugshot, if you will – so if the virus decides to attack again, the bacteria will be ready to recognize and defeat it quickly."
"Nature is magic," said Sirius, a secret and devout lover of the Planet Earth series.
"It is. Anyway, biotech researchers realized that the splicing ability the enzyme carries is far more exact than anything humans have been able to create. They've been able to use it in other organisms, to splice out and insert genes with unparalleled accuracy, essentially altering the genetic makeup of that organism…and all of its descendants."
James let out a low whistle. "Creepy. That's a lot of power."
"And if there's one thing Riddle loves…" Sirius said. He and James exchanged darkly significant looks.
"James, it's really no wonder you work for a conspiracy theory peddler," Remus snapped. "I don't see why this is creepy. It sounds like it could have some really amazing medical implications."
"And it does," James' father said quickly. "There's a lot of potential there. If you are genetically predisposed to have a certain disease, doctors could potentially splice out those genes that predispose you. As wild as it sounds, it's really in the same vein as the genetic modification we already practice on plants and animals."
"Just, a million times more exact?" James asked.
"Yes," said Fleamont. "Think about it. Parents who are getting in vitro fertilization can already choose the sex of the baby – they're not supposed to, but they can. This would be the same, but more accurate and cheaper. The initial studies haven't been that successful, and there are a lot of barriers in place to even doing studies, at least in this country. But the potential is there."
"Say what you want, I don't trust Riddle with that kind of power. After all, with great power comes great - "
"Oh, please Padfoot, stop quoting Spiderman," Remus bit out. "What's it matter if you don't like the guy who's doing the research? He has the financial backing – I say let him do it."
"What say you, Peter?" James' father said loudly, cutting off Sirius' protests.
Peter looked hesitant. "Well…I'm with Remus. There's a lot of potential there, and if it's regulated properly - "
"The question is, is Riddle willing to obey regulations? My sense of the guy is he's willing to bend the rules to get what he wants," James mused.
"Takes one to know one," smiled Fleamont.
"I still say it's worth the risk," argued Remus.
"Listen, I'm going to do some digging on Riddle. See if there's anything dodgy going on at that company. I've got permission from Pritchard to make that my next feature piece."
"Brilliant," said Sirius, apparently forgiving James for his earlier transgressions. "I'll help you."
"Why don't you ask the T.M. Riddle employee we have sitting right here?"
Attention shifted to Peter again, and he didn't seem happy about it. James glanced uneasily at his father. Generally Fleamont was better at picking up group dynamics than this. Talking about Peter's job was definitely not the best way to keep Sirius' blood pressure down.
"Well, this research is happening anyway. There are a lot of labs in China that are doing it. Here in Britain there are a lot more regulations, so it'll be safer. And we might as well try to keep up." He caught sight of Sirius' snarl, and added hastily, "but I don't really work on the R&D side. I'm in HR."
Sirius snorted, and James quickly interceded before he could remind them all that Peter was, in fact, his little brother's secretary.
"So, Remus. How's the bookshop? You reckon Mr. Patil'll let us in again any time soon? He can't still be mad – it was just one tiny bookshelf."
To James' surprise, Remus didn't leap on the distraction.
"No. I want to know more about what Sirius thinks. What if they developed something that could help me, eh? Would you think their research was no good then?"
Sirius looked stricken. "Of course not, mate, it's just, I don't think they're making it a priority to cure diseases. I think Riddle's just trying to milk this as a money cow."
"Fine, but you were just arguing the other day against cutting military spending because you said loads of things we use every day were originally designed for combat. So why is this any different?"
"I – it – I don't trust Riddle!"
"And there's the crux of the issue," Remus said, settling back in his chair. James was rather surprised to hear Remus sound so caustic, but he suspected Sirius has touched a nerve by failing to acknowledge Remus' stake in this issue.
Sirius spluttered a bit. James decided to step in. "Look, I see what both of you are saying. Moony, you know Sirius would support any sort of research that would help you. But, on the other hand, even you can see that Riddle's just barreling ahead with the science, leaving the ethicists huffing along behind. Besides, I think there's something we're not talking about here. Eugenics. We all know most of the people Riddle's hired subscribe to that pure British blood nonsense – no offense, Pete. Who's to say they don't believe they'll be developing a superior race or something?"
"Something else to consider, boys," interjected Fleamont, "is who will be able to afford to get their kids' genetics changed."
"Health is already tied to income," Remus frowned. "And you said CRISPR would be cheaper.
"It's cheaper to make. But whoever gets the patent will be able to charge whatever they'd like."
"So, do you also think the research should be stopped?" Remus challenged.
"No," said Mr. Potter gently. "I'm just saying that who does the research does matter."
Remus gave a small jerk of his head, Sirius muttered something that may have been an apology, and Peter got up to get dessert.
