A Friend of a Friend
Train after train passed by as Imogen Lighthouse sat in the underground station, furiously scribbling notes. Her penmanship had deteriorated, she noted, resisting the urge to pull a Quick Quotes Quill from her tan-colored leather briefcase. Unfortunately for her notebook, she was surrounded by muggles, and such a careless display of magic was surely to be frowned upon. And so she continued writing chicken-scratch musings about her assignment with a muggle ballpoint pen, cursing every smudge resulted from her clumsy hand.
The underground station was dreary, not helped at all by the cold snow storm brewing outside. She was to meet her interviewee at a restaurant on the outskirts of town in the hidden magical district and while apparating seemed to be a much more convenient solution, the Romanian Magicstrate was even more severe than that of Britain or her native France when it came to performing magic anywhere near muggles.
The loudspeaker above her head rang out, shouting louder for this one than any of the previous announcements. "Tren spre piața Sfântul Andrei!". Imogen noted that the voice of the speaker was also different, and, upon looking around, saw that she was the only one of two people to seemingly notice.
"Sfântul Andrei" she repeated to herself, "I suppose that must be Saint Andrews, then". It had been five years since Imogen left France, and she had been speaking at least a little English all her life, but that did not make the translation from Romanian to English any easier.
The only other person who seemed to have noticed the thunderous announcement nodded to her seriously. He was an elderly man, and Imogen noted his robes, surely a once-stunning shade of midnight blue, now a little faded and tattered at the bottom hem. He was unmistakably a wizard, and with the sense of relief from having someone to share the train with, she rose from her bench, gathered her things, and stood near him on the platform.
The muggles who shared the space seemed to move past the witch and wizard without seeing them. The wizard grunted in polite greeting and Imogen nodded back. She didn't feel particularly up to striking a conversation, partially due to assuming he was Romanian but mostly due to being mentally transfixed on her assignment.
"The youngest Scholar for the Minister for Magic ever. Former classmate and personal friend of Harry Potter. Skillful and decorated dueler. Eligible bachelor." The bullet points from his bio ran through her head. She smiled faintly at the last one. "Bachelor… a handsome one too if what Ginny said was accurate."
Slowly, a train, more antique and clean than those which had zipped through the station all morning, pulled to a stop in front of Imogen and the wizard beside her. The doors slid open and the man chivalrously motioned for her to enter first.
Graciously obliging, Imogen stepped from the platform and into the car of the deep blue train. The inside was warm, with walnut brown armchairs surrounding and small tables covered in crisp white tablecloths placed artfully throughout so that one could pass easily without disturbing the passengers already on board.
She moved through the cart to find an empty seat. The car was quiet, filled with many witches and wizards on their morning commutes to St. Andrews Square, the central hub of the magical district. Many were reading newspapers, the Romanian language creating a barrier for Imogen to snoop.
Walking to the end of the cart, she found a lone witch sitting at a table, an empty armchair. "Pot să stau?" Imogen asked, aware that her thick French accent probably made it difficult for the woman to understand. To further help her case, she motioned to the chair.
The woman, caught up in her reading, glanced hastily at Imogen, to the chair, and back to her magazine. "Yes, yes, fine. Așezați-vă!" Imogen noticed her Irish accent. The woman pointedly shook the magazine and sighed, showing her annoyance at being interrupted.
Imogen's polite smile faded when she was sure the woman was no longer paying her any attention. She sat on the chair across from the witch and, with amusement, saw that she was reading the latest issue of Witch Weekly.
Imogen studied the cover. A grinning young girl in an adorable red dress, seeming tossing a beautifully wrapped Christmas present directly at the reader. The enchanted image replayed the scene over and over again, each time the present failing to leap off the page but instead returning to the girl whose smile never seemed to dim.
Her friend, Clarrisa, a junior art director at the magazine, had complained to Imogen over coffee the day after they shot the cover that the girl was "a little brat who was the second most unpleasant person in the room, surpassed only by her own mother."
Luckily for Imogen, she rarely had to deal with "the talent" at the magazine. She typically wrote copy for the Fashion and Lifestyle editor, but that all seemed to change a week prior. Elsbett Price was out sick and thus Imogen had been sent to conduct her first interview. In Romania, nonetheless.
Elsbitt was exceedingly charming and beautiful, the perfect candidate to interview eligible bachelors for the Lifestyle section of Witch Weekly. She always managed to get people to give her the exclusive take. Imogen gulped nervously at the idea of delivering in her place. She'd even suggested rescheduling Elsbitt's interview for when she was feeling better, but their editor refused on the grounds that today was the only day the subject was available.
Imogen self-consciously took out a hand mirror. She had been extra careful while doing her hair and makeup in the morning and was pleased with the results. She shook her head, hoping to physically clear her apprehension. She had done interviews before, just none to this caliber.
"It's going to be fine," she thought to encouragingly as she put away the mirror and looked out the window. The city passed by and she smiled, remembering what Elsbitt had told her.
"They're going to put you in a cheap hotel room, probably a train ride, or at least an aparation, away from where the interview will take place," Elsbitt had croaked over the phone just two days prior, her voice dry and hoarse, "It's nothing against you. They're just cheap. Staying in magical inns is more expensive than muggle places. Don't ask me why!"
The train halted to a stop three times before reaching St. Andrews Square. Imogen occupied her time by reviewing her interview questions. Elsbitt had helped her come up with at least half of them, but she was clearly instructed by her and her editor to "not be afraid to improvise and follow her instincts."
Finally, the train screeched to a stop, the sound of metal-on-metal alerting Imogen that they had arrived. She carefully tucked her papers back into the briefcase and rose to leave. The witch who had so unceremoniously greeted her practically sent Imogen to the floor as she pushed through the crowd, eager to get off the train as quickly as possible.
Imogen herself was a little more reserved in her approach. She patiently waited to disembark and, upon doing so, was greeted by the familiar sights, smells, and sounds of magical streets. From the bakery, the sweet scent of plum pastries drifted by temptingly. She checked her watch, but there was no time to stop for one.
Just off the platform, a tall, handsome man with flawless umber skin in emerald green robes waved to her. She recognized him immediately, but was quite surprised to find him here. Collecting herself, she waved in return and hurried off to see him.
"Mr. Thomas?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
He nodded and extended his hand, "At your service, Ms. Lighthouse. And please, call me 'Dean.'"
"Imogen," she replied, smiling pleasantly and shaking his hand. "I thought we were to meet in a restaurant. The Dragon's Gorge?" She took her hand back to her side and looked at him expectantly.
Dean shrugged, a boyish smile planted on his face. "I thought we could walk and talk. Besides, I'm not hungry, are you?"
Imogen briefly glanced at the plum pastries with a sense of longing. "No," she responded, meeting Dean's eyes yet again. He stood tall, though not as tall as she had imagined based on Ginny's description. "But I wouldn't say 'no' to a coffee, if you don't mind leading the way."
Dean happily agreed and they set forth on a short walk to the coffee shop next to the bakery. Imogen hoped she could stop by on her way back, once the interview was over. Talking, walking, and eating was decidedly unprofessional, in her opinion.
Dean and Imogen walked up to the window, each ordering a large latte for their stroll. "Do you mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill?," she asked as the stout man behind the counter began to make their orders, "I'm sure that walking and writing can only result in either injury or completely illegible notes."
"Perhaps it's my motive to make your notes illegible," he smiled mischievously.
"Then you should have said that you do mind, rather than revealing yourself so soon," Imogen responded, taking the enchanted, black feathered quill from her case along with a clean, black notebook which stood in stark contrast to the mangled old thing she'd been scribbling on earlier in the morning.
The pair set off, drinks in hand, the quill and book floating behind them, already set at work. In flowing black ink, the quill tirelessly wrote, a handsome man, tall. Prefers to walk-and-talk rather than sit down for an interview. Vanilla latte in the largest size available. Emerald robes. Casual. Boyish smile, yet mature eyes.
"What does that thing track? Your thoughts or my words?" Dean asked, nodding to the quill.
"Both, if I've trained it well enough," Imogen answered matter-of-factly. Curious mind.
Dean looked back, studying the quill more intently this time. "I didn't know you had to train them."
Imogen nodded, "They work just fine without training, but they improve over time if you use the same one."
"So why did you choose black ink?" he asked, meeting her eyes, "Seems like a permanent choice. What if you regret it in a few years?"
Asks lots of questions for an interviewee, the quill scribbled furiously behind them
"It's timeless," she answered, knowing it was time for her to ask the questions, "Dean, would you mind telling me why I needed to meet you in Romania, a country where neither of us reside?"
"Sure," Dean said, clapping his hands and then motioning wide, gesturing at the street itself, "I'm here learning, and I wanted you and your readers to see what I'm studying." A little flair for the dramatics, not unpleasant.
"Hence the walk?" Imogen smiled in amusement. Ginny had mentioned Dean was highly intelligent, and Imogen began to see it. Usually Scholars of the Ministry were Ravenclaws, so she found it truly remarkable that a man with a reputation for being a "true Gryffindor" was so excited about studying a random district in Romania.
"Hence the walk," he confirmed. "And, as it were, I just purchased a small flat here a few days ago. Closer to the action that way." Multiple residences- very glamorous.
He continued walking, leading here further into the fray of magical businesses. "You see, the Romanians have dealt with the aftermath of a dark wizard's rise and fall for a much longer time than our Ministry has. Tell me, how does this sprawling square with all its streets and alleyways compare to Diagon Alley in the UK?"
Imogen nodded but did not answer, instead asking him to "Go on."
"It's massive, it's bustling. Many locals will agree it's recovered from Grindewald's reign of terror, one not dissimilar to Voldemort's. So that's where I come in as Scholar of the Ministry. I conduct interviews, surveys, and studies of this district in order to streamline a similar process in Diagon Alley. After the war, the Ministry hoped that Diagon Alley would fix itself. Afterall, it's not like shopping was everybody's priority after the war ended. But things have stalled, so I'm learning everything I can so that hopefully one day, we'll call it "Diagon District" instead of just "Alley".
Optimistic.
"And how do you spend your free time when you're not performing scholarly duties?" She could tell from the look on his face that he was disappointed. Something told her that he could have talked for hours about his job, and she'd have loved to listen, but her readers wouldn't. No, the readers of Witch Weekly, she knew from demographic analyses performed by her colleagues, were looking for the personal touch.
"People can- and do- read about Ministry affairs from the Prophet," Elsbitt had warned her after finishing a coughing fit and blowing her nose into the phone, "Don't act like his job is groundbreaking journalism. It simply isn't. If it were, Clearwater over at the Prophet would already have her perfect little hands on it. Ask him about his personal life, what he does for fun, his ideal first date."
"I read quite a bit. Doodle," he shrugged. She got the impression that Dean didn't enjoy a lot of free time. But the second bit caught her attention. Ginny had mentioned Dean could draw, or at least he could as a tennager. It was hard to imagine this tall, imposing man was ever a young schoolboy, drawing lions on posters for Quidditch games.
"Some would say you're a bit of an artist?" she looked at him, expecting at least a little bit of surprise on his face, afterall, this wasn't exceedingly common knowledge.
He did not entirely disappoint, and shot her a bright and amused grin. "Whew, you did your homework, didn't you?"
"I have my sources," Imogen responded coyly, satisfied with that response.
Dean chuckled and nodded "Yes, tell Ginny 'hello' for me, would you?"
Imogen's smile faltered a little. It seemed as if he too had looked her up before their meeting. "It appears you also do your homework."
"Call it an 'abuse of power' I suppose," he replied with a lighthearted air, "But yes, I used to draw quite a bit. Now my sketches are most constrained to napkins or in the margins of memos."
A certain playfulness about his position in the ministry. High-ranking, but with the unpretentious nature of someone in a much lower position.
"Interesting," Imogen mused, "What do your colleagues think of these drawings in the margins of their carefully constructed memos." The tone of her voice suggested she was mocking the Ministry just a little.
Dean caught the hint of sarcasm and laughed, "Well, if anyone actually read my notes on their memos, I can only assume they'd have the highest regards for my little doodles." He turned the corner and led her down an alleyway, brightly lit with green lanterns and lined with merchants shilling their wares.
"Last minute Christmas gifts! Engraved quills! Genuine Romanian embroidered coin purse!" A man with an impossibly red nose shouted in a thick Romanian accent down the street at the many passersby. He noticed Dean and tipped his cobalt blue cap. "Mr. Thomas, anything catch your fancy?"
Dean clasped the man's hand and shook it. "Not today, Balan. But perhaps my friend? Imogen?" Dean gestured at the stand, covered in beautifully crafted trinkets and gifts.
Imogen shook her head politely. "Beautiful, but I am not in the market for anything." She shook the man's hand as well, and led Dean back to the street. Friendly, recognizable. "What is your ideal first date?" she began the interview again, her gracious smile not giving away her annoyance at being interrupted.
"Balan is one of my most trusted sources," Dean informed her, not answering the question.
Imogen nodded understandingly. "He seems very friendly... Dean, your ideal first date?"
"Right," Dean said with a chuckle, "I forgot which magazine I was dealing with here." Imogen looked to him, her scowl giving away that she had taken offence to this comment. "Oh," Dean jumped, for the first time his calm demeanor slipped, giving way to a flustered awkwardness, "I only meant-"
Imogen interrupted him haughtily, "My readers like to get to know the men and women behind these big Ministry decisions more personally. We can all read about people like Balan, who restarted his mercantile just six months after Grindewald's defeat and has since been an ever-present leader in the rebuilding of St. Andrews Square and a trusted source for you and the Ministry in the official reports or the Prophet, if the story is big enough."
"You really did do your homework," Dean laughed in amazement. Imogen relaxed, the nights of reading every public article about the man next to her finally felt worth it.
"I really do," Imogen composed herself again, "Now, Dean, your ideal first date?"
Dean sighed and continued walking. "Something like this, I imagine." Imogen felt a blush creeping to her cheeks as she sipped her latte. They turned another corner and she took the opportunity to obscure her face from his view.
"Care to elaborate?"
"Sure. Something casual, relaxed. It's no fun if everybody involved is trying too hard. Getting dressed up, going to a fancy restaurant is fine once I'm more comfortable with a girl, but in the beginning, I'd rather it'd almost be like a friendship more than anything else."
"Is it fair to say you're more of a 'snuggle up by the fire' sort of man?"
Dean chuckled and shook his head, "I suppose so, but I'd rather you didn't. I don't want to be a laughing stock at the ministry."
"Fine," Imogen smirked, "I'll omit that. What kind of cologne do you use?" Imogen checked her watch. They'd been walking for quite some time and she worried she hadn't asked enough questions to do a complete profile.
"I don't use any." Rugged, natural.
"Any sort of scented body wash?"
"Would readers care about this?"
"Yes."
"Pine, I think?" Very natural.
"Favorite meal to cook."
"I don't cook." A true bachelor.
"Favorite thing to eat, then?"
"Steak and chips." Very rugged.
"And drink?"
"Pumpkin juice." Childlike innocence maybe?
"Favorite season?"
"Autumn." Warm personality.
"Color?"
"Blue," he answered, his patience appearing to waver, "Forgive me, Imogen, but I could have my secretary fill out a survey and get it back to you. I worry we're wasting both of our time here."
Imogen knew he was right. She was with a top official at the Ministry of Magic and her questions could have been written by her three year old niece. "What was it like being in the same House and year as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger-Weasley? Did you ever feel like you were in their shadow?"
"Aha," he remarked seriously, "Finally. Everyone wants to know this. My and my friends always made the best of our time at Hogwarts, sometimes those three were there, sometimes they weren't. I think they always liked being around us, maybe it gave them a sense of normalcy. I still don't know everything they went though, and by the sounds of it, no one will. All I know is that they never asked for any special treatment, never acted entitled, never treated the rest of us poorly. They were and still are very good people who, by chance or destiny, had to go through more than I'd ever want to go through." Humble, loyal.
"Do you think the British Wizarding World will ever get back to its pre-Voldemort normalcy?"
"Hard to say," he replied thoughtfully and in a measured tone, "As a muggleborn, I'm not sure I want it to get back to normal. No, it needs to be better and I do think we're on our way to 'better'. The Statutes of Secrecy being rewritten is a good step. Young children from wizarding families are encouraged to attend muggle schools before wizarding schools, limited muggle technology is now allowed at Hogwarts, and the muggle Minister plays a larger role in the Ministry of Magic. Muggle tolerance is directly tied to muggleborn acceptance.
"As for the economy, which is where my professional opinion rather than personal one comes into play, we're recovering from the shop closures, the gross mismanagement displayed by the Ministry while it was overrun by Death Eaters, and the loss of prison labor from the closure of Azkaban. I still maintain that shutting down Azkaban was in the best interest of all wizards, despite what critics say, I want that made clear. These things take time. Most people don't realize how messed up everything really got. The progress the Wizarding World has made thus far is nothing short of impressive."
Dean finished his speech. Clear, passionate, speaks from the heart, steadfast in opinions and beliefs. He pulled a pocket watch from his robe. "I apologize, Imogen, I believe our time is up."
Imogen glanced at his wristwatch and confirmed. She grabbed the quill and notebook from the air. "Yes, it is. Thank you, Dean. I'll make sure your secretary receives an advanced copy of this," she said, tapping the quill to the now closed book.
"Back to London, I take it?" Dean asked, putting his watch back into the folds of his robe.
"Yes," she nodded, "Quite a long flight. We're not allowed to aparate on company time." He nodded with understanding and smiled yet another mischievous grin.
"If you'd like, you could miss your flight and take my fireplace back to the Ministry in London," Dean beamed down at her, "But only since you're a friend of Ginny's. Please, do not let any of your reporter friends know that that's an option. I don't want just anyone in my apartment."
Imogen weighed her options, but the choice was clear. Taking the fireplace back would save her hours, and with the holidays rapidly approaching, she wanted nothing more than to get home and wrap the numerous gifts that were now sitting in a heap on her bedroom floor.
"I'd appreciate that, Dean," she responded politely, "And thank you again for this interview, especially since I'm taking your time up so soon before Christmas." Dean outstretched his elbow and she took it, disaparating and reappearing in front of his apartment fireplace.