Author's Note: You may remember that there was a chapter near the beginning of the story that I called a "transition chapter". This is another of those chapters. I could have summed up what happens in this chapter within a page, but I think a lot would have been lost. Hope you agree.
And if you're unfamiliar with the term "gopher", it refers to a person who runs errands. "Gopher" this, "gopher" that.
Chapter 15: Developing
"Well, Miss Debman, I have to be honest with you. There really are no positions open at the Prophet right now."
Mr. Barnabas Cuffe lifted a foot off the floor and raised it to the point where, when he bent down slightly, he could pick up his leg and place his ankle on top of his knee. Satisfied, he leaned back as much as he could in his straight-backed, professional-looking chair. The desk between the two of us was spotless, though the desk in the back of the room, which he clearly used to do his work, was quite cluttered.
"You're qualified to work here. Your O.W.L.s were very good, and the preliminary results of your N.E.W.T.s suggest your final scores there will be quite good, as well," he continued.
He tapped his fingers on an arm of the chair. His other hand rested on top of his ankle. I disliked him. He held my future in his hands, yet he seemed unconcerned. He was powerful and he knew it. He didn't enjoy it. Perhaps years ago he'd enjoyed being able to determine what happened in others' lives. Now, affecting people's lives was as commonplace to him as magic.
"Of course, you don't even know what it is you want to do here," Cuffe said. "If I had some idea, I'd know whether or not we could afford to open another position for you."
"I'll do anything," I said honestly.
"Anything?" the editor of the Daily Prophet asked, raising an eyebrow. "You'd be a janitor?"
I didn't answer right away. I knew he was just testing me, but I didn't want to end up cleaning toilets mere days after working so hard to perform well on my N.E.W.T.s. "If cleaning is the only way to work for your paper, I'll clean."
Mr. Cuffe smiled. He knew I didn't really mean it; I passed his test, anyway. "There is one position I can offer you. It isn't glamorous. However, you'd see bits of what most of the people who work in this building do."
"Sounds perfect," I said, praying I wouldn't be bringing all of the people in the building coffee or tea.
"Basically, you'd be a bit of a gopher," Cuffe said, shifting in his uncomfortable seat. "Anyone who needed a bit of help would come to you."
"So I'd do all of the jobs no one else wants?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Cuffe laughed. "Something like that, honestly. Reporters might ask you to check facts or set appointments for interviews. Photographers might ask you to help them develop film. Advertising specialists might ask you to write bills and send them. Everyone will ask you to run errands."
So I will be getting coffee for everyone, I thought.
"As I said, it isn't a glamorous job. On the other hand, you could discover how else you might be an asset to our paper." Cuffe laughed. "Look at it this way. You can only be promoted. There's nothing to be demoted to." He laughed again at his own joke.
I forced a smile. "When can I start?"
"Next week," Cuffe said, uncrossing his legs. "Monday. Seven a.m. You'll start at one and a half times minimum wage. Raises come with each promotion. You'll have your own desk at the back of the main office space. One hour break at lunch. Work ends at six p.m. unless production is running behind schedule, as it always is, but you'll get paid for overtime. Two weeks vacation a year. Any questions?"
"Any benefits?" I asked.
Cuffe snorted. "You're a Muggleborn, I take it?"
I nodded.
"You're going to pay so many taxes to the Ministry, you'll wish you had less benefits."
"Oh," I said simply.
"Any other questions?" the editor asked, standing.
I shook my head and stood, too. "No, sir."
"Good. I'll see you Monday at seven." He stuck his right hand out across the spotless desk.
I took his hand and made sure I shook his hand firmly, remembering what I'd heard about strong handshakes showing strong character. "Thank you, sir," I said, smiling.
"Thank you, Miss Debman."
I left the office building of the Daily Prophet and walked into Diagon Alley. It looked exactly the same as it had when I'd walked into the office an hour previously, but it had lost some of its magic. Diagon Alley was no longer the place in which I had first encountered a new world of people. I was suddenly a part of the new world. I wasn't a Muggle with magical powers; I was a witch. Diagon Alley was now only slightly more glamorous than the local convenient store.
It was ironic to me that, after spending seven years at Hogwarts worrying that I would never really belong with wizards because I was a Muggleborn, graduating from Hogwarts is what made me feel like a true witch. I never thought feeling like a witch would ever upset me. It did because it upset my parents. They could tell that I no longer felt as if I was a part of their world. It hurt me that I didn't want to be.
I spent the next week finding an apartment. If my parents resented the wizarding world for any one thing, it was that children came of age one year early. I thought about staying with them, but I felt strange being a legal adult living in my parents' home. Sure, I was going to be financially relying on them for several months while I got on my feet, but I wanted to feel a little independent. I found a run-down, one person flat in London that was near The Leaky Cauldron. It was cheap and convenient, so I barely hesitated to sign the lease. I moved out on my own two days before I started work. Mum and Dad helped me arrange everything.
The week passed and my first Monday as a Daily Prophet employee began. I got ready carefully, wanting to make a good impression on the people I'd be working with. I figured that if everyone there could tell me what to do, it would probably be to my benefit for the people there to like me. I felt somewhat immature caring so much about what the others thought of me. After all, I was going to start making my own money. I was living alone in a shabby flat. I was seventeen and a legal adult. Weren't adults supposed to be confident enough in themselves to know that an extra ten minutes in front of the mirror isn't going to make people like them any better?
I walked into the Daily Prophet office appearing as confident as possible. I'd learned the trick from Percy. He could pretend as if nothing was bothering him quite well. Strangers usually fell for his act. I always wondered whether or not the Weasleys could see through it.
I found my desk easily. Mr. Cuffe had given a good description of its location at the end of my interview. The desk was in the very back of the crowded main office area. I immediately wondered why I hadn't thought of bringing anything to put on the desk. All the office had supplied was a small nameplate, a stack of rolls of blank parchment, a couple of quills and a half-empty bottle of ink.
I walked around the desk and saw the only part of my space I actually liked: the chair. I'd been afraid everyone would have a straight-backed chair like the editor's. I was happy to see a simple office chair. I sat down and tested its ability to roll, recline and swivel.
"I take it the chair is to your liking?" someone said as I was discovering that the chair could make four full circles with one push off the desk.
I put both feet down quickly, coming to an abrupt stop with my back to the speaker. I had to turn to see the person. I turned bright red when, as I'd feared, the editor was looking down at me.
"Sorry, Mr. Cuffe," I mumbled.
"Not a problem. You young ones right out of Hogwarts are always… interesting." He laughed.
"That's us," I said, growing redder.
"I've let the office know you're here at their disposal. The mornings will probably start out slowly. Late afternoon, when we're scrambling with the last few stories, is when things get interesting."
"Is there anything you'd like me to do now?" I asked.
"Oh, stick close to your desk, and I'm sure someone will find something for you to do."
"OK."
Cuffe left without another word. It was nice of him to come see me on my first day. Or maybe he'd just been checking to see if I'd shown up on time. Either way, I didn't think any better of him than I had during our interview.
I spent an hour staring off into space and rearranging the blank parchments in the drawers of my small desk. I could have gotten some entertainment from the office chair, but I was too afraid I'd get caught spinning around in circles again. Finally, a middle-aged woman with black hair and white-rimmed glassed came smiling up to my desk.
I smiled back, thankful to be getting any attention.
"You're the new gopher?" she asked.
I nodded and kept smiling. "Pretty much." I stood and offered my hand to her. "I'm Laura Debman."
She took my hand and shook it once before letting go. "I'm Melissa Furthing. I write for the business section of the paper. I have a little errand for you."
"Great!" I said, happy to end my count of how many windows were in the room. All of the windows faced Diagon Alley. Later I learned this was true of every room in the building. There was nothing on the other side of the office to look at. After all, there had to be boundaries to Diagon Alley somewhere.
Ms. Furthing handed me a sealed envelope. "Please take this to Mr. Ollivander. You know who that is?"
"The wand maker," I said, doing quite well at hiding any signs that the question was insulting. I took the letter.
"Yes. And please take this," she produced another sealed letter, "to the Owl Post and mail it Priority. Just tell the clerk it's for the Prophet. They'll put it on our bill."
"OK," I said, taking the second parchment. "Why don't we just mail the letters from here?" I asked, my curiosity getting ahead of my tact.
Melissa's false smile became rather thin. "The Owl Post owls are more reliable than any animals we could get. Plus, it's more professional to use the mail service. And we'd need dozens of owls to send all of the mail the paper sends every day. What would the office look like if we had owls flying in and out at every moment?"
A part of me understood and agreed with her points. The other, and larger, part of me was thinking about all of the letters that I was going to be running to the Owl Post. (Months later, I learned that the woman was wrong. All businesses in Diagon Alley had to use the Owl Post so that the clerks there could control the number of owls leaving Diagon Alley to avoid drawing Muggle attention to the area.) Thankfully, the Owl Post was only approximately the equivalent of a city block away from the Prophet office.
I spent the rest of the morning running similar errands. Most of the errands were related to the paper. Some were related to me getting food for others in the office. One errand involved me checking on a sick iguana at the Wizard's Veterinary Office. I was thankful to be undisturbed during my lunch break in a general staff lounge in the basement.
That afternoon, I was able to help with something more directly linked with the production of the paper.
"How do you feel about fact-checking?" a younger wizard asked as he walked up to my desk. His appearance could be summed up as "slightly above average." Slightly taller than average, slightly thinner than average, slightly more handsome than average….
I shrugged. "Er…."
"Rather apathetic?" he asked, smiling kindly. His smile was the only thing about him that stood out.
"If that," I admitted, smiling back.
He laughed. "Too bad. Come with me."
I stood up and followed him across the office. I took the opportunity to look around more closely. My desk provided a poor view of the goings-on in the office. There was a false wall about ten feet in front of my part of the office, which made it so I could only see the upper-half of the large room. Since owls were unwelcome in the building, the upper-half of the room was rather uneventful. I could see some of the windows facing the street. That was all.
"First day?" the man asked without turning.
"Yes."
"Enjoying it?"
"Yes," I lied.
"Good." He stopped in front of a table with some copies of newspaper pages and piles of parchments stuffed in large folders scattered across it. "All right. This is tomorrow's sports section. The magic in our printers eliminates grammatical errors, but can't check to see if what's written is true. And it can't check the spellings of proper names. So read the articles quickly but carefully. When you come across a name or place or time or… any statistical or factual piece of information, check it against our sources," he said, pointing to the stacks of folders, which were labeled neatly, "or the Network."
"I'm sorry. The Network?"
"The Informational Network," he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, Merlin…. All right. I'll give you a quick introduction to the Network. You'll have to figure out the rest on your own." He reached across the table and opened the largest book I'd ever seen. The book was easily two feet thick with a length of over two feet and a width of over one foot. Upon opening the book, I saw that the pages inside were thin and completely blank.
"Tap the book with your wand," the man said.
"OK," I said, nodding to show that I understood the first step.
He laughed. "No, I mean actually tap the book with your wand."
"Oh." I tapped the book. Lines started appearing on the two pages the book was opened to, but the lines didn't form words or diagrams. Each line, about an inch long, would appear slowly on one of the two pages the book was open to, but would disappear as soon as the line completely showed itself.
"Now take out a quill," he said.
"A quill?"
"Yes. A quill. You do know what a quill is, don't you?" He meant it teasingly, but I took it personally.
"Of course," I said, blushing. "I just didn't bring a quill over here. I'll go get one," I said, turning from the table to make my way back to my desk.
"No need," the man said. He stepped quickly walked around a fake wall that was a few feet behind him and came back with a quill and a bottle of red ink. "Use these," he said, handing the materials across the table.
I took the quill, dipped it in the ink, and then looked up for directions.
"Now just write what you want to know," he said, raising a hand as if he were offering something to no one in particular.
I stared down at the massive book. At the moment, the only thing I wanted to know was why no one at Hogwarts had ever told us about the Informational Network.
"Write your own name in the book. That will be a good example."
I followed the man's directions and signed 'Laura Debman' onto the top of the right-hand page. The lines that had been coming in and out of view froze while I wrote. As soon as I lifted my quill away from the parchment, the lines quickly flowed together to form words.
Laura Anne Debman (17. Daily Prophet. London.)
Laura Sybil Debman (Deceased. Ministry of Magic. London.)
Laura Winfred Debman (79. Muggle. Devon.)
"Then either take the quill and write the full name of the person you want to learn more about or take your wand and tap his or her name."
I tapped my name with my wand. The words broke into lines again, and then started forming new words. Within seconds, there was one page of statistics about my life. The book seemed to know everything important that had ever happened to me.
"Numerous books similar to this one make up the Informational Network. The Prophet actually has several books, both because we need to look up so much information and because the paper has to keep every newspaper article ever written on record. Our books are bigger than most because they have to store all of those articles," the young man explained.
"It's all correct," I said, skimming the list of dates and names that were connected to me. Below the list of important dates, which included anything newspaper-worthy I'd ever done, was a list of my close relatives. "The Muggle papers are in the Network," I noticed aloud.
"Yes. And all of the Muggle libraries. All of the wizarding libraries are on the Network, too, except Hogwarts."
"Why not Hogwarts?"
"They're rather old-fashioned. Like their students to do as much work as possible." He laughed. "I'm sure you'll attest to that."
I smiled. "Yes. I was just wondering why Hogwarts didn't have a bunch of these things."
"Well, they're rather expensive. Ordinary people don't have a book connected to the Network."
"Hogwarts could afford them," I said.
He nodded. "That's true."
On a hunch, I tapped on my mother's name with my wand. The page reformed itself to show her information, which went onto the second page.
"I see you're catching on quickly, so I'll leave you to your fact-checking."
"OK," I said, looking up from the book and smiling thankfully. "Thanks for your help."
"Not a problem." The man started walking away quickly to do whatever it was he needed to be doing.
"What's your name?" I asked, realizing that he'd never told me.
The man turned his head and grinned. "You won't find anything interesting about me in there," he nodded towards the book.
"Oh," I said, only just realizing how powerful (and slightly unnerving) the Network really was. "I wasn't going to… I just wanted to know your name," I muttered.
He laughed. "I was giving you a hard time. My name's Elliot Murphy."
"Nice to meet you, Elliot," I said.
"You, too, Laura," he said, nodding before hurrying away to do more work.
The verifying was slow going at first. Part of my problem was that I was unfamiliar with the Network and with the filing system the Prophet used to store their source materials. After about two hours (and two pages), I was familiar enough with both systems that I couldn't blame my lack of progress on not knowing what I was doing. I just didn't care about what I was reading. The sports section was the part of the newspaper I used to give to whoever asked for it first. I rarely even read the headlines. Now I was being forced to read details of Minor League Quidditch matches, probable outcomes of upcoming hippogriff races, new models of broomsticks and other such nonsense.
I grabbed the third page of sports section and almost whimpered. I was only half-way through the section, and I knew I was helping the paper very little. If it kept talking me a whole afternoon to look over one small section on the paper, I was going to lose my job. The first headline I saw on the page did nothing to improve my mood.
Puddlemere Names New Reserve Keeper
Wood, Former Gryffindor Captain, 'Excited'
I'd thought a lot about Oliver during the week while I had nothing better to do. I'd cried a little. I'd vented to my mum several times. I'd written half a dozen nasty letters and incinerated them quickly, both to feel better and to stop myself from sending them to Oliver.
I hadn't thought of Oliver once that day up to that point. I was too busy worrying about looking as if I deserved my job. I skimmed the article about Oliver, and the anger I'd felt during the past week surged back.
Wood says he couldn't have made it to the 'big time' without the help of his family.
"My dad, who played Quidditch himself when he was young, made all the difference. Without his support, I'd never be sitting here talking to you today."
He went on to say his friends at Hogwarts also helped him greatly.
"My friends were all very supportive of my decision to play Quidditch professionally. All of them understood that I've been working for this my whole life. Honestly, I think they were happier than I was when I heard the news."
"What?" I asked aloud. "Happy?" I scooted the chair I was sitting in away from the table. "I don't remember being very happy about it."
"Happy about what?" a man, who looked as if he was in his mid- or late-twenties, asked, walking up to the desk. He had a camera case slung over one of his shoulders and was holding a single photograph in his hand. He moved awkwardly, his movements rather exaggerated, almost like prey that is very aware of its surroundings. He put his camera case on the table and ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair self-consciously.
"Nothing," I said. "Just… talking to myself."
I wondered if I was going to say anything intelligent that day.
"What article were you reading," the man asked, slightly turning the page I'd been looking at. He skimmed over the top of the page. "This article?" he asked, guessing correctly.
"Yes," I said, seeing no way out of telling the truth.
"Then you know him?" he asked, holding up a picture.
I looked more closely. Oliver was standing proudly in robes of blue. I could see a gold symbol on his chest.
"I did," I said. I was surprised by my own answer.
The man blinked. "I see." He took his photograph of Oliver and placed it on an empty space of the page that I was supposed to be proofreading. "Took me forever to track down this broadsheet. It's usually past this stage by now."
I groaned inwardly and felt even worse about how slowly I was moving. Granted, this man wasn't helping me.
The photographer decided the photograph was too big. He took out his wand and waved it a bit in the direction of the picture. The image of Oliver shrunk a little. The man nodded, satisfied, and tapped the wand quickly and rather harshly on the photo, which melted into the paper. For a moment, I forgot the subject of the picture, impressed with what I'd just seen.
"Know him well?" the man asked, stepping back from the table, but still looking at the picture, probably making sure it was centered.
"Small school. Not many people in our year. Less than normal," I said, dodging the question.
The man nodded once. "I see," he repeated. He smiled quickly. "I'll let you get back to your work."
I watched him leave and then looked back down at the third page of the sports section. I sighed. One good thing came out of the previous situation: I was much more motivated to get to the fourth and final page of the job.
After finishing the sports section, someone from the international section asked me to do the same thing I'd just finished for her section of the paper. I agreed, happy to read about something that I was more concerned with. My interest in the material helped me get through the international section more quickly. The woman who'd given me the assignment even gave me a compliment after I'd finished.
Every workday for the next month was very much like the first day. I simply got better at living that day. Within a week of starting the job, I cut down the amount of time it took me to fact-check a section of the paper from four hours to just over an hour. People started noticing, so there was never a day when at least three sections didn't ask me to use the Network to make sure everything in the paper was as true as we could get it. Thankfully, most people in the office made me feel appreciated. If they hadn't, I probably would have quit after a few weeks of running errands and verifying information. The work was boring. The glamour of the Network disappeared within days. The glamour of working for the Prophet disappeared within weeks. Living on my own only made things worse because I had no one to look forward to seeing after work. I was still going home quite often for meals, especially on weekends, when I only worked a few hours in the afternoon.
About once a week, I would be greeted by a letter from Joan. She was following through with her promise to stay in touch with everyone, so she was able to keep me up to date with what the other Gryffindors were up to. Mark and Rose got lower jobs in the Ministry, but neither one was discouraged. Both of them were perfectly capable of moving up the ranks, and they knew it. Mark and Joan had decided to stop their off-and-on dating for good, and Joan told me she was glad. I completely believed her. Rose was still dating Flint, who also worked for the Ministry, in his father's department.
Tara was enjoying herself at the Flourish and Blotts in Hogsmeade. She was hoping to be transferred to the Diagon Alley store within a year, though it was unlikely that would happen. Even though her family owned the bookstore chain, Tara was still the lowest of the low. She was happy not to be receiving special treatment. Adam was scouring the wizarding world for an acting job. To make money, he'd gotten a job washing dishes at a Muggle restaurant somewhere in London. I was certain he was using magic when the Muggles weren't looking. Joan expressed similar concerns, though she was more apt to give Adam the benefit of the doubt.
Cedar was working for Gringotts in Diagon Alley, but I never saw her. As I'd feared before leaving school, I had no reason to keep in touch with most of the old Seventh Years. We'd gotten along well in a group, but I'd never had time to make strong friendships with most of them. Joan had forced me into a friendship, which I was glad to keep going after graduation. I wrote back to her within a day of receiving each letter. She said I was the best at keeping in touch.
The truth was that I was just trying to make her believe that her news about Oliver wasn't bothering me at all. He was by far the Gryffindor she told me the most about. There was no more to tell about Oliver's career than the rest of ours. He practiced Quidditch every day with the team. He traveled when the team wasn't practicing. The Reserve teams would play a match before the real games, so people coming into the stadiums would have something to watch. Oftentimes, the matches ended before the Snitch was caught so that the real teams could start their games on time. Oliver didn't care. He was doing well and was expected to substitute for the real Puddlemere Keeper soon. (I'd already read this in the papers, of course, though I never told Joan this. I thought she'd think I just didn't want to hear about Oliver, which was somewhat true, but I didn't want her to know that, either.)
Just when I thought that the rest of my time as the Prophet's gopher would be spent proofreading every article ever published by the paper and running back and forth between the Diagon Alley office and the Owl Post, I finally was asked to do a different task.
"Excuse me."
I looked up from the Network book I was using to check the Home and Home Life section of the paper. The voice had been unfamiliar, but I recognized the man, partially by the camera case hanging off his right shoulder. It was the same photographer who'd put Oliver's picture in the paper on my first day at the Prophet. I smiled at the man politely, only because I automatically smiled at everyone at work. Really, the memories of the not so good first day at the Prophet and of Oliver's successful start to his career made me want to punch something.
"May I help you?" I asked, holding the smile.
"Yes, erm, I'm rather behind in developing my pictures. I'm usually much more on top of it, but I haven't been in the office much, and… so I need help."
"I have to finish this first," I said, motioning toward the newspaper section lying on the desk in front of me. I'd been following a first-come-first-serve policy since I'd started at the paper so no one could accuse me of favoring certain departments in the office. "It'll be about twenty minutes."
The photographer nodded once. "Come down to the dark room when you've finished. Oh, erm, knock first."
"OK…. Only… where's the dark room?"
"The basement. In the back, farthest from Diagon Alley."
"I'll come down," I promised, and the young man walked away.
Fifteen minutes later I was knocking on the door to what I hoped was the dark room.
"Coming! Don't come in!"
The door opened a sliver and a hand holding a wand popped into the hallway.
"Nox!"
The lights in the hallway went out with a tiny pop.
"Hurry. That charm is very temporary on anything other than wand-light," the photographer said, closing the door right behind me.
The dark room looked similar to what I imagined Muggle dark rooms look like. Red lights hovered near the ceiling so that people could work without compromising the black and white photographs. Pieces of photography paper floated in trays full of liquid on the worktables that lined the walls and the one larger table in the center of the room. In one corner, a few cauldrons brewed without giving off light. And, of course, drying pictures hung from strings stretching from wall to wall.
"We could dry them with magic, but I think they turn out better if they air day. Most of the photographers think I'm mad, but I convinced Cuffe it was the best method, so air drying is Prophet policy now," Ian said, seeing me tracing the lines of photographs with my eyes.
I nodded, still looking around, and I vaguely wondered why I wasn't bored by the man's rambling. "And the cauldrons?"
"Potions for developing the pictures. Most of the ingredients are the same chemicals the Muggles use to develop pictures. Some ingredients help the pictures move when we do charms on them. And a couple are added so the potion doesn't explode."
I turned my attention to the photographer to see if he was serious. He was, but he'd also said the last comment as a joke. I recognized the dry sense of humor and laughed, mainly at the familiarity.
The man smiled, reminding me even more of Percy. I hoped for the photographer's sake that he didn't have much else in common with my friend, whom I'd hardly heard from since graduation. He'd sent a short letter saying he'd gotten a job at the Ministry in the Department for International Cooperation and that they were busy preparing for something happening at Hogwarts during the next school year. After a few more lines teasing me about how he couldn't tell someone who worked for the Prophet information the Ministry was trying to keep secret, he'd signed the letter. I'd sent a few, more detailed letters to Percy, but had received no replies. It was hardly a surprise, but his lack of contact merely a month after the two of us left Hogwarts angered me a bit. I'd thought he'd put a bit of effort into staying in touch at first.
"I was serious. The potions will explode," the man said.
"I know. You just reminded me of a friend."
"A friend? Not Oliver Wood, then, I take it," he said, grinning and showing he remembered our first meeting.
"No, not Oliver Wood," I agreed.
"Who, then?"
"Percy Weasley," I answered, wondering why he even cared.
"A Weasley? Bill's brother?"
"Yes," I said, surprised. "You know Bill?"
"'Course. Went to school with him. I was a year older, but seeing as we were both in the same house, we knew each other rather well."
"You were in Gryffindor?"
"Don't act so surprised, please," he said. "It pisses me off."
"No, no," I said quickly. "I just don't remember you. What's your name?"
"Ian Mallory," he said, holding out his hand. "I guess I forgot to tell you that small detail upstairs. That main area makes me nervous… too much stress up there."
I shook Ian's hand. "I'm Laura Debman."
"Laura Debman," Ian said slowly before shaking his head. "I'm afraid I don't remember you, either."
"Well, I was just a First Year while you were there. Still, I'll have to tell Percy to tell Bill I met you."
"How are the Weasleys?"
"Alive," I said, automatically coming up with Percy's answer to the question.
Ian frowned a bit. "Didn't Dan pass away a few years ago?"
"Oh," I said, caught off guard. "Er, yeah, a few years ago. Broom accident," I muttered. "I thought you meant more recently."
"It's been quite a long time since I talked to Bill, I guess. Probably haven't seen him since the funeral." Ian coughed a bit. "Anyway, I should send him a note. See what he's up to."
I nodded.
Ian looked at me closely for a moment, then blinked and smiled. "Have you ever developed pictures before?"
"No," I said apologetically.
"No problem. Making the potion is the hard part. The rest is relatively simple."
"I like relatively simple."
"Then you'll love this," Ian said.
I did love it. I don't think I'd have called the process simple, but it certainly wasn't brain surgery. Ian showed me, quickly but in a plain manner that I could understand, how to transfer the negative from the film to the photograph paper, which involved two charms. Then he demonstrated how to place the photograph into the tray so that the negative would not be harmed. He assured me the potion almost never explodes in the trays. ("If it was going to blow up, it would have done so in the cauldron. Not to worry. Potions was my second best subject.")
We worked on those steps for about an hour before all of the pictures Ian wanted to develop were properly in their separate trays. When we finished, Ian said we'd have to wait a few minutes before we could start hanging the photographs to dry.
"Well done," Ian said kindly.
"I'm rather slow at it," I apologized. "It's fun, though. Well, maybe 'fun' isn't the right term, but it's… better than looking up facts in the Network all day," I grinned.
Ian laughed sympathetically. "I never was very interested in the writing side of news. Another reason I don't like the main workspace of the office."
"I don't hate it," I said hurriedly. "I don't mean to sound as if I hate it."
"You didn't sound as if you hated it." Ian smirked. "You merely sounded as if you didn't particularly like it."
"I don't," I admitted and sighed. "I've always wanted to work here. I didn't picture myself… doing what I'm doing, I suppose."
"You won't be doing what you're doing forever. Cuffe won't have it. The gophers don't stay gophers long."
"They get promoted?"
"The ones that don't quit first, yes," Ian said.
"Wonderful."
He laughed. "Don't worry. If the office didn't like you, they'd have made sure you'd have quit by now." He paused. "Another reason I don't like the main office area."
I smiled at him thankfully.
"You really don't mind developing pictures?" Ian asked.
"No, I like it," I insisted.
"Then, after I show you how to hang them up, maybe you can come down and help out every now and then. You know… it might make things here better if you don't have to do the exact same thing every day. And I would get to spend more time taking pictures and less time in the dark room."
I smiled genuinely. "That would be great."
"OK. Then let's get started again."
The process of hanging the photographs to dry was rather self-explanatory, though I had more problems with it than with putting the pictures in the potion to develop. All hanging the pictures involved was using a pair of forceps to gently slide the photographs out of their trays, lifting them up to drip for a few seconds, taking them over to available spots on the string, and attaching clothespins to them. No matter how hard I tried, I could not master the forceps. I dropped a few pictures. I tore another. The rest of them took me so long to hang that I hardly helped Ian at all with that part of the process.
"Why can't we just use magic to get those out of the trays?" I asked, still frustrated even though we were finished.
Ian shrugged. "You could, I guess. Sometimes it's just easier to do things the Muggle way."
I snorted and Ian laughed.
"Don't worry about it. I didn't like the picture you ripped in half anyway."
"You did. You said so when I put the picture in the tray."
"Yes," Ian admitted, "but that doesn't make you feel better."
I smiled. "Now you're crossing into Dan's sense of humor."
"How is that different from Percy's?"
"It's not, really. Dan's is just a bit kinder."
Ian nodded slowly and coughed again, as he had when he'd mentioned Dan right after I'd come downstairs.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly.
"For what?"
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I… I know it's an uncomfortable topic."
Ian shook his head. "I hardly knew Dan, Laura. I thought the subject was making you uncomfortable."
"I… no… I just…. The subject caught me a little off guard last time and… I didn't… I mean, I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten about…. Maybe a little uncomfortable." I laughed at myself. "I'm just not used to people not beating around the bush when they talk about Dan."
Ian awkwardly shifted his weight to one side. "I'll try to keep that in mind."
I shook my head. "No need to." I smiled. "I guess I'd better go back upstairs and proofread another section. My guess is that at least two sections are sitting on my desk as we speak."
"Ugh," Ian said, making a face. "Desk work. Another reason I don't like the main workroom."
"Yeah, the desks aren't much," I agreed, walking to the door. "But the chairs are great." I stuck an arm out of the now cracked door. "Nox!"
As I reached the staircase, the lights went out again and I heard Ian call my name. I turned and saw his silhouette standing outside of the darkroom.
"What?" I called.
"There's a photography position opening soon. Simpson's retiring. You should think about it," he said loudly, not moving from his spot outside of the door.
"I don't know anything about taking pictures."
"So learn." Ian raised his wand. The lights started to flicker back on. "Nox."
I didn't think about what he'd said until I got back to my flat one night about a week later. Joan had sent another letter with news about herself and our friends. It seemed as if all of them were moving forward. She was doing well in the summer classes she was taking and loved volunteering at St. Mungo's. Adam had just gotten a role in a production of The Merchant of Venice. Even Cedar, the most indecisive and noncommittal of all of us, had learned she liked working with money and had gotten a permanent position at Gringotts.
I felt like the only one floundering. Yes, I had a job, but not a career. I wanted to be able to say that I did something at the Prophet, not that I merely worked there. I thought about what Ian had said about considering photography. At the time, it seemed like a great alternative to the crap I was doing in the main office. On a whim, I went to my parents' house to borrow my dad's old camera. After fiddling with it for an hour, he remembered enough to show me how to focus it and adjust flash levels and film speeds. I had no idea what I was really supposed to do, but I wasn't above experimentation.
Within a week, I had a few rolls of pictures I'd taken at the park near my flat and at a busy street in London. The pictures were sitting in my bottom desk drawer, waiting for the chance to be shown to Ian. Finally, a few days after I'd brought in the prints to the office, Ian sent a note asking for help developing his film that afternoon.
"Well… the good news is that you're not hopeless," he said after looking through the prints quickly. I'd dragged him into the hallway after we'd finished putting his pictures into the Developing Potion. "You're figuring out the focus, which is probably the hardest part. Here's what you need to remember: in magical photography, the subject of the photograph will move. We charm it to do so. The background, however, stays the same. So, it's the background you want to get perfect."
"Oh," I said somewhat dejectedly. "OK. I'll try again."
"Do that," Ian said, smiling. "But now, let's hang up some pictures."
I did much better with the forceps, not tearing a single photo.
I had several rolls of pictures by the time he called me back down a week later. He recommended that I keep paying attention to backgrounds, but said that I was on the right track.
"If I got a job as a photographer, what would I be taking pictures of?" I asked.
Ian shrugged. "Whatever your beat is. I take pictures of sporting events, as well as news events that take place in Diagon Alley. …Not much happens in Diagon Alley, so mainly I do sporting events."
"That seems like a random assignment."
"Not really. I travel a lot for the sports pictures, so I need my other beat to be close to the darkroom. My guess is that whoever gets the new position will get a rather boring beat. Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, maybe."
"Those places to need their own photographer?"
"No, but people like to read about their kids and see their pictures in the paper," Ian said. He took out his wand. "Nox." The lights popped out. "Back to work."
My meetings with Ian became regular. Once a week, I'd go down to the darkroom and show him photos. Once a week, he'd tell me I was making progress and to keep trying. I no longer had to concentrate as much while putting pictures into trays of potion or while hanging up the photos to dry. While we worked, Ian gave me tips about how to improve my photographs and explained some of the subtleties of using a camera.
My weeks revolved around those meetings, which got longer as he started showing me how to do tasks that were more complicated. I genuinely enjoyed learning about photography, and I liked Ian's company. I was rather lonely at the time, I guess. I felt as if I had two friends: Joan, whom I never saw, and Ian, whom I saw once a week. Sure, I was friendly with some people in the office. I ate lunch with Elliot, the man who'd taught me about the Network, and a few women from the local and national news sections of the paper. Though I enjoyed being around them, I didn't feel as if those were real friendships. Not like those friendships I'd had with the other Seventh Years. With Percy. With Oliver.
…I missed them both.
Despite the boring nature of my workdays that didn't involve trips down to the dark room, Christmas and New Year's came much faster than they'd ever seemed to come before.
"Are you coming to the office New Year's party?" Elliot asked me during one of our group lunches.
"There is one?" I asked. I had wondered, but thought someone would have mentioned it sooner than a few days before the event.
"Oh yes, it's quite a good time. And Cuffe kind of expects everyone to come," Hilary, one of the women from the national section, said. "You should definitely come."
I grinned. Joan had been on my case for the past month about going to the Wood's party. She'd assured me Oliver did not mind if I came, though I couldn't help but wonder if she'd even brought up the possibility in her letters to him. For the past week, I'd been desperately searching for a better excuse than 'I don't want to go.' The office New Year's party would was a better excuse than I ever could have hoped for.
"I'll definitely be there," I said, nodding.
"Good," Elliot said.
The party went well and I met several colleagues I'd never seen in the main office space before, including some of the photographers. I had a good time. Still, I couldn't silence the small part of me that wondered what would be happening if I'd gone to Oliver's house. But it was only a small part.
I'd gotten short breaks from work for Christmas and New Year's. When I went back, I was sure that every additional day I spent with the Network was a day that I wouldn't spend with my grandchildren. The work was so boring, I thought it was impossible that the tediousness wasn't cutting time off the end of my life. I started to put all of my effort into photography, spending lunch breaks in the dark room to develop my own pictures and to practice charms on them.
I enjoyed experimenting with the different charms Ian had shown me. Different charms made people do different things. Some charms (the charms most commonly used on the photographs that normal wizards take and have developed by a professional) made people do whatever they were doing when the picture was taken. Ian called these the "candid" charms. Other charms made people act in certain ways, no matter how those people had felt when their photograph was taken. I could make sad people smile and wave. I could make happy people angry.
About five months after I started working with Ian, and about two weeks after I'd learned how to charm pictures, I finally asked him what had been bothering me since he'd told me about the different types of charms. "Aren't we doctoring these photos?" I asked.
Ian, a Muggleborn, was familiar with the term and shrugged. "Technically, I guess."
"Isn't that dishonest?"
Ian laughed. "If, by 'dishonest', you mean that the photograph isn't representing what was actually happening at the very instant the picture was taken, then yes. However… here, here's an example."
Ian took down a photograph of a Quidditch Seeker reaching out to catch the Snitch.
"This woman missed the Snitch by inches," Ian said.
He performed one of the "candid" charms to show this happening.
"Now, you can't really see this person's reaction. However, I can assure you that she almost broke her broom in half while still riding it, she was so angry."
He performed a charm that increased a subject's anger. The person in the picture started making signs of frustration after continuously missing the Snitch.
"Not exactly her reaction, but it does represent her feelings. Is that 'dishonest'?" he asked.
I paused. "Kind of. But not horribly."
"Exactly. It's no different from touching up a photo to increase the quality. Not really. It simply makes a better product," Ian said.
"I guess," I agreed.
"Some of the photographers here do perform charms to inaccurately portray their subjects," Ian said, lowering his voice a little, even though there was never anyone else in the dark room with us. "At least, I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that they do. I can't prove it, of course. What they do, yes, is dishonest. And I strongly suggest you never do it."
He rarely got preachy on me. That was one of the only times he ever did. I solemnly promised him that I never would publish an inaccurate or truly dishonest photograph. He smiled, nodded once, and turned back to his work.
I started hanging pictures in silence while Ian continued to charm a few more pictures. It was uncommon that we worked without talking, usually about photography, but sometimes about other things. Never highly personal things, perhaps with the exception of our shared experiences as Muggleborns. I tried to avoid personal subjects, partially because he was a coworker and I'd always been told not to get too close to people I worked with. Also, Ian was a bit nosy. At the time, I was still a little worried he'd try to get involved if I told him too much, like Joan had done in the past.
"Would you like to be a photographer for the Daily Prophet?" Ian asked suddenly.
"Yes," I said immediately, dropping the picture I'd been hanging to dry.
"I talked to Cuffe this morning. Told him you already know how to do the lab work and are getting rather good at taking pictures, too. And considering that I taught you everything myself, I was able to assure him he would save time and money hiring you because you know how things here are done."
It was true. Charming photographs had been his last lesson for me. I'd already learned now to make the dangerous Developing Potions. I'd even learned how to resize and place photographs onto the broadsheets so that they could be published.
"The job's yours," Ian said, looking up from the photograph he'd finished charming.
I didn't even bother to pick up the dropped photograph. "Oh, thank you, Ian!" I said, beaming and practically jumping up and down. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Ian laughed and bent over to pick up the picture still lying on the ground. After he stood back up, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," I said one last time and kissed him friendlily on the cheek.
Ian laughed again, a bit embarrassedly. "You're welcome. I'll just have to leave that part out when I tell my girlfriend you accepted the job."
"You have a girlfriend?" I asked, surprised but not unhappy.
"Yes. I've told her a lot about you, actually. She particularly liked the story about when you threw yourself under this table," he motioned to the center table, which we were standing next to, "when you thought your developing potion was going to blow up."
"Oh, I did not," I said, waving a hand dismissively.
"You did," Ian said, smirking.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you had a girlfriend?" I asked to change the subject.
"You never asked."
"I never asked…. Well, why didn't it ever come up?"
"Well, if I would have mentioned Sarah, then you'd have asked about her. Then I would have had to ask you if you had a boyfriend, which would have led to Oliver Wood, and you never seemed so keen to talk about him."
"I don't seem not 'so keen' to talk about Oliver," I said after blowing air out of my nose. I blinked and looked at him more closely in the poor light. "Wait…."
Ian was trying to hide a smile so large that it was clear he was only barely keeping himself from laughing.
"I'm the Quidditch photographer, Laura," Ian said, as if in explanation for knowing information about me that I'd never told him.
"So?"
"He asked about you. When I took his picture at the beginning of last summer. I kind of suspected he'd dated you based on how he asked, and your reaction to that one article confirmed my suspicions." He laughed at my still befuddled face. "I simply put two and two together."
After several seconds, I said, "I think everyone else is better at math than I am."
"Maybe."
"If I weren't still so happy about not being the Prophet's tool anymore, I'd probably be rather pissed right now."
"I know. That's why I decided to confess now," Ian said, grinning.
I shook my head and smiled despite my best efforts not to. "Your sense of humor is definitely more like Percy's than Dan's."
"Ouch," Ian said, wincing in mock pain. I'd complained to him once or twice about Percy's lack of communication.
"Anything else you'd like to confess while I'm in a good mood?"
Ian paused but shook his head. "No. You should go upstairs and tell Cuffe you've accepted the new job."
"OK," I said. In my excitement, I almost forgot to "Nox!" the lights in the hallway before leaving the dark room, which Ian probably would have killed me for, even if that would have meant someone would have had to train a new photographer.
I was able to see Mr. Cuffe right away, which was unusual if one didn't make an appointment.
"Come to accept the job?" Cuffe asked from behind his clean desk before I'd even reached the chair across from him.
I nodded and stopped walking.
"Here's the contract." He pushed a piece of parchment across the desk. "Take it home tonight. Read it. Sign it. Bring it back tomorrow."
"OK."
"You'll start next week. You can spend the rest of this week familiarizing yourself with your beats."
"Hogwarts and Hogsmeade?" I guessed.
"Hogsmeade, yes. You won't get Hogwarts until after the Triwizard Tournament is over. Rita Skeeter has that story, and she has her own photographer, Bozo. So until you get Hogwarts back, you'll take over one of Simpson's assignments."
"Which is?" I asked, praying it would be a decent beat.
"London. Just the general stories. We'll send out more experienced photographers for bigger stories. And Diagon Alley is Ian's."
"Yes, sir."
"I think the assignment will be good for you. You're from London, correct?" the editor asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.
"Yes, sir."
"Then I'm sure you'll do fine."
Cuffe smiled, not kindly, but still supportively. The kind of smile that Oliver used to give his players before a match, I thought. The thought made me uncomfortable. The past few months had been good for me where Oliver was concerned. I had had other things to think about, like learning about photography. The better I'd gotten at photography (though I still was by no means great), the less angry I was at Oliver for succeeding at his job. I was still angry with him for giving up on the relationship, of course. I missed having him to talk to, and as far as I was concerned, it was his fault I'd lost him as a confidant.
"Thank you. I'll do my best," I promised Cuffe.
"I've no doubts of that. Now, go unpack your desk for the next unfortunate person to receive your job."
"Yes, sir," I said with enthusiasm, turning to leave.
"Don't forget the contract."
I spun around, quickly picked it up and headed out of the office.
That night, I got out a quill and parchment and sat at the small table in my kitchen/dining room/ living room to write my first letter to Joan that wasn't a response to one of her letters.
Joan,
They finally offered me the job! I accepted, of course. Tell Oliver.
Love,
Laura
Author's Note:
Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. School got in the way of writing fan fiction, unfortunately. Thank Merlin for vacations! Be on the lookout for more updates (at least one!) between now and the end of January. Thanks for sticking with the story!
As always, thanks to electronicquillster for the support.
In the next chapter (which was originally going to be part of this chapter…oops):
Another six months has gone by. Laura's career makes her first reunion with the Seventh Years quite… uncomfortable. (Shouldn't be an extremely long chapter... but I've said that before.)