WHO: Betty Braithwaite and Byron Kettleburn WHAT: Betty walks in on Byron doing a thing WHEN: Last Saturday, 13 January WHERE: Byron's flat WARNINGS: None
Maybe she should have called. At the very least, given some kind of warning. But there was something about the rumour she’d heard that morning that made her want to investigate it as quickly as possible. And, in the spirit of generosity (and the interest of not ending up alone where a tentacle monster had been sighted), she’d thought about extending an invitation to one of her coworkers come with her to view it. Not Gwen, Gwen had enough on her plate right now and Betty couldn’t bring herself to heap anything more upon her. Tinworth was cursed, as far as Betty could see, so maybe inviting her friend to seek out the monster wasn’t the way to go.
Instead, Byron.
She might not have called ahead, but Betty had the foresight to at least knock rather than just floo unannounced to his flat. Her fist hammered neatly on the door, and then again when she didn’t receive an immediate response.
Inside, Byron swallowed down a lump of panic in his throat and hastened to clear away some of the debris from his weekend at home. A moment later, a harried looking version of Betty’s friend appeared in the doorway. Recognition registered on his face — and relief. He reached out for her wrist and tugged her inside, closing the door behind them.
“Sorry,” he muttered, catching his breath. He slanted a look of confusion at her. “What are you doing here?”
Betty’s look of confusion mirrored his as she puzzled through the fact that she’d been welcomed in with such urgency. She rubbed her wrist gently with her other hand, looking around the place now. “There was a sighting—” the bottles of beer caught her eyes first, a twist of sympathy in her stomach, “In Kent. I thought you’d want to check it out.” Everything looked a mess, and Byron had seemed so rushed that it had completely thrown her off.
“The tentacle monster.” It was a poor kind of explanation, but she was distracted now. Betty picked up a few loose sheets of paper to try help him tidy, and recoiled in shock as they duplicated at her touch.
“Don’t touch the—” Byron cut himself off and scrubbed a hand over his face as the pile of papers on his table grew. He took a deep breath and, hoping to avoid an explanation, attempted to steer the subject back to what had brought her to his flat. “What was that about a tentacle monster?”
Her attention was completely diverted now, and she removed her hand from the papers she’d been touching. The layout looked familiar, yet different somehow, and she gave Byron a challenging look. “What’s all this?” Betty asked him, brow furrowed, tentacle monster forgotten.
Byron ducked his head and lifted a hand to slide through his hair. “It’s, uh, a prototype,” he said. “Just something I’ve been working on.”
And she relaxed into a half-smile, keen and curious. “May I?” Betty asked, not waiting for a response before trying to peer at one of the pages. “Unless it’s a secret, of course,” she joked, reaching for the paper again without thinking that it would just duplicate again. She swore under her breath as more paper appeared at her touch.
Byron watched her and snorted quickly from his perch a few feet away. “It’s not that good yet,” he explained, keeping his eyes on her face to gauge her reaction. “But I figured, you know, can’t write this shite for the Prophet anymore…”
She glanced suddenly up at him as he spoke, sharply trying to figure out what he meant about the Prophet. She cleared her throat softly, glancing across the page. “It is good,” she contradicted him. “Why, is making nonsense up about benevolent and kind Death Eaters getting old for you?” Betty couldn't hide her scorn. It had been getting old for her.
“I’m bloody sick to death of it,” Byron admitted and let out a weak laugh. “I didn’t get into journalism to hide the truth.”
Betty heaved a soft sigh, strangely hesitant even though some kind of acknowledgement had now happened of their mutual frustration. “I thought I could get by turning it into a game,” she shook her head. “Except these are people and their lives being ruined.” She sat, looking at the pages. “Knowing exactly what to do is difficult too.”
“Going along with it occurred to me,” Byron said, his mouth twisting into a rueful smirk. Betty didn’t seem shocked. Not horrified. Not disgusted with him. “It’d save me of making a mess of my flat.”
“Plus, I do like being alive most of the time.” He took a step closer to the table and glanced down at the pages strewn across it. “If they ever find out about this, I’ll probably find out what happened to Lovegood.”
Betty gave an involuntary shudder at the idea of what could have happened to the editor of The Quibbler. It must have taken quite something to silence him. She kept her eyes on the pages, not looking up at Byron. “Can I help?” Betty asked, the thought that he might not be working alone just not occuring to her. “I’ve been looking at things, trying to write something in my spare time but you’ve got all this.”
“Really?” Byron lifted his eyebrows and gave her a look halfway between concerned and quizzical. “I mean, this whole thing could turn out to be a colossal waste of time. But —” He hesitated before continuing on. “It’d be nice. If you’re serious.”
“Better a waste of time than doing nothing,” she surmised, knowing that she’d chewed on the thoughts for a long time now. Maybe that was what Flick had thought when she’d taken a Muggleborn with her on that doomed escape attempt. She looked up at him, met his look with one of resolve. “I’m serious.”
Byron studied her for a beat before the corners of his mouth twitched into a grin. “Brilliant.” Then, heading for the kitchen, “Beer or wine?”
Betty laughed softly, the question almost amusing to her. “Wine.” She stood up to follow him.