The Legacy of Salazar

The Sentence

"Good on time, 're ya?"

"Please Barnabas, you know me better than that."

Barnabas Cuffe leaned back in his chair and chuckled. He spoke with a cockney accent, though Rita had never asked if her editor was really from the area. He wore his beard proudly despite its salt and pepper colour and usually donned a black bowler hat to cover the growing bald spot on his head. At the moment, however, it sat on his desk.

"It don't hurt to be reminded e'ery once in a while." Barnabas broke into a yawn and reached for a steaming mug on his desk. "Ne'er thought I'd see you back in the courtroom. Andy nearly threw a fit, he did. Thought the case was his for sure."

Rita rolled her eyes and pushed off from the wall to stand before him. "Please, this story is larger than just the court case. Andy wouldn't know what to do with it, and we both know he couldn't handle the Ministry breathing down his neck."

"No he wouldn't, but at least he don't sit on interviews like you do." Barnabas narrowed his eyes slightly. "You interviewed that Merlin boy weeks ago, so 'ow come it's not crossed my desk?"

Rita didn't even blink. "Come now Barnabas, you know the danger of milking a good story too quickly."

Barnabas huffed but nodded all the same. "You bring in a lot of traffic Rita," he said carefully, "but don't get too cocky now. I'm expectin' a hell of a story for the evenin' edition."

Rita turned on her acid green heels. "Of course," she tossed over her shoulder, and she left the office. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Andy next to the stove, putting on the kettle. He was lanky, with a nose that had been broken at least twice and curly brown hair.

Honestly... if that punk tried to swipe another story from her, Rita would see to it that he made tea for the rest of his career. Then again, she'd been the one to swipe stories back in the day—made a name for herself too—but at least she'd done the stories well. She could handle it. The bureaucratic bullshit, the ministry sticking their nose into her articles—changing and spinning the news as they saw fit. The paper wasn't there to tell the news, it was to calm the public, to reassure them that the shit they saw wasn't all that important.

Sometimes it was fun. Other times it irked her. Pity, she liked her job too much to fight against it.

Rita swung by her desk, grabbing an extra note pad and sticking it in her crocodile-skin handbag. One could never have too many. There was a rap of knuckles against the wood, and she looked up to see Bozo leaning against it. Her favourite photographer. If she needed a photo, it didn't matter how he would get it for her. He was a paunchy man, though he claimed to be working on it. Somehow, Rita thought the look suited him. He was more imposing and impressive this way. He scratched his stubble, brown flecked with grey and looked at her with dark brown eyes.

"You wouldn't be leavin' without me, would ya?"

Rita laughed. "I would be lost without my photographer. Though," and here she pushed a memo from the ministry toward him. "This time they've specified no photographs of the proceedings."

Bozo hummed. "So, setting up in the hallway then? Snap a few as they leave?"

Rita paused a moment, considering. "Ideally, but do try to ask permission this time. I've heard word that the Minister of Magic himself will be in attendance, and I don't think we need to antagonize him." She shrugged, "Besides, they'd dare not deny a photo—free press and all that."

"And if they do dare?"

"Take the photo anyway."

He smiled, a wide one that took up most of his face. "That's what I thought." He checked his watch. "Time to go?"