#fptt01

Journalism, as it turned out, wasn’t all tracking down sources, clandestine meetings and uncovering deep-rooted government conspiracies. There was, apparently, a great deal of waiting involved, in uncomfortable Ministry-standard chairs while Mae from records tried to pretend she wasn’t acknowledging your presence but would, eventually, slide a discrete folder across the desk because you had an arrangement. That was a big part of the job, he’d soon discovered. Knowing people in the right places.

There was also a surprisingly frequent amount of getting punched in the face. 

And so, Fabian waited, a days old Prophet turned to the half-filled in crossword in his hands and his foot jiggling absently where it was balanced carelessly across one knee. The mundane drift of progress as people approached the desk, categorising the sum of life and death and all the quiet joys in between on little certificates until, as Fabian pencilled in Scamander into a 7-Across, a familiar voice caught his ear.

He glanced up over the top of the newspaper, tapping his pen against his lower lip as the familiar voice met up with a familiar face in perfect, twattish harmony. That absolute twat.