WHO: Vic Mulciber and Byron Kettleburn WHAT: Two buds playing catch-up WHEN: Last night, 26 March WHERE: A bar in Diagon Alley. WARNINGS: None!
“Since I’m pretty sure this is a rescue from puzzles for you,” Vic said, sidestepping any acknowledgement or gratitude that Byron had suggested a drink to ostensibly improve her mood (a gesture of friendship that had left Vic touched and reeling with the unfamiliarity of it all), “you can pay.”
“That’s really generous of you,” he said with a snort as he took a seat at the bar. He shrugged off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair before adding, “And I’ll have you know pubs are great places for jigsaw puzzles, provided no one flips the table you’re working on.”
“I feel like a lot of table flipping happens in your company,” she said dubiously though it sounded almost like teasing.
“What can I say?” He motioned to the bartender, who didn’t ask his order before she got to making it. “I’ve just got one of those faces that incites violent outbursts.”
“Can confirm,” she returned and also tried to gesture to the bartender, who seemingly ignored her. Jaw set, she leaned over. “I’ll have what he’s having, thanks for asking. Honestly,” she muttered and settled deeper into her seat.
They didn’t do this very often, Vic wasn’t typically asked to hang out outside of the larger group that probably only invited her because it would be remiss to exclude her. Or at least, that’s how Vic saw it. But, recent events had encouraged her to take another look at her perspective of things. Both Byron and Lakshmi had been relatively quick to come to her defense against Hestia, and damn it if that didn’t inspire some warm feelings of gratitude.
They were utterly wrong, but it was nice anyways.
Vic cleared her throat.
“Faces,” she picked up the thread of their conversation, “and articles. You’ve been a popular guy.”
Byron let out a slightly embittered laugh. “They probably aren’t dumb enough to let something like that happen again, but if you’re ever about to interview someone, I’d suggest skipping Starbeaks for the day.” He gave the bartender a nod when she set their drinks down in front of them. He pressed his luck and gave her a wink before she walked off down the bar, rolling her eyes.
“Anyway,” he said with a more genuine laugh this time. “Love potions don’t do much for journalistic objectivity.”
“No,” Vic allowed, smirking. “But they do quite a bit for entertainment, which some would say is far more important than journalistic integrity these days.”
It was a pointed comment and a rude one. “Er, sorry.”
Byron shrugged and took a long draw off his drink. When he set it down, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You’re not wrong. Wizfeed’s looking pretty good these days.”
Vic’s disgust was evident. “More quizzes?”
“I was thinking something like ‘Tell us which dog this former Auror is and we’ll give you the secret to success’ would be a great angle for them.”
Vic snorted and took another long drink of her beer. “Rhys would be one of those big fluffy things from Canada. A Newfoundland, a gentle giant. “Yaxley would be an Afghan hound,” she added matter of factly, confident, like she’d thought about it. “K fess up, what’s the secret to success.”
“An Afghan hound?” Byron laughed at the edge of his drink before he took another sip. “The secret to success is a good night’s sleep, obviously” He smirked at her. “You’re welcome, and you can send your compliments to my o-mail.”
Vic showed her thanks by cursing at him, and tipped her drink back.
“To offset all the hate mail?”
“You know,” he exhaled a laugh and shook his head down at his drink. “Given some of the stuff I’ve written, I’m surprised there isn’t more. I’d have thought the Deadborn thing would’ve warranted at least a few howlers but —” He cut himself off with a shrug and a quick glance at her before he tossed back his drink.
Vic considered him quietly, fidgeting with her hair as she thought of her own role, tangentially speaking, in providing that fodder.
“Might have something to do with your boss’s mob connections. Has it been bad?” Casual, curious.
“Nah,” he shrugged again and set down his glass. He wiped his mouth again and gave her a sarcasm-laden grin when he dropped his arm. “Gives me a chance explore my creative side.”
“Free range to bullshit you mean,” she rolled her eyes at him.
“Still, even if you’re not out there to make friends, it has to suck. Is it really worth it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “At least I’m good at it, right?”
No actually, sucks to suck and Oh were you looking for me to validate you? were acidic and primed retorts that would have been acceptable as part of their regular snark.
Instead, Vic was horrified to hear herself agree. “You are, just sounds shitty if you ask me. You forget I know a thing or two about the great shield of sarcasm. It’s not that effective.”
“It’s worked pretty well for me so far,” he said with a shrug. It was true as long as he didn’t dwell with the thought for too long. “Helps to have a thick skin.”
Vic flagged the bartender down for another drink. “If you say so. It’s kept you alive, which is amazing when you consider half the shit that comes out of your mouth is just a request to be punched in the face, so who am I to judge. You’re like the King.”
She raised her new glass and saluted him.
“If I’m the King, you’re the Queen,” he said, raising his glass to tap to hers. “Our kingdom for endless snark.”
Vic gave a real smile at that, weirdly pleased to be included.
“Queen of snark? I’ll take it. Better than anything I get called lately.”
Byron’s forehead dressed as he furrowed his eyebrows at her. “Who's been calling you anything?”
Vic shot Byron a disbelieving look. “Um, hello, where have you been for the past 20 years? I mean I don’t get loser as much. So, cheers I guess.”
But there was a 50% increase in ‘Death Eater’. She wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.
“Are you sure you’re not just dwelling on the opinion of one or two people in particular?” Byron took a sip of his drink before he continued. “Hestia Jones isn’t everybody.”
“Hestia Jones is nobody,” she retorted, but her grip was so tight on her glass her knuckles were white. Hatred didn’t seem to be description enough of how Vic felt about Hestia Jones.
“I’m not winning popularity contests, I never have and I’m not fishing for pity. I don’t care. People think I’m some cult worshipping loser, fine. I don’t have to be liked to do my bloody job.”
“Well, no,” Byron shrugged. People tended to like him a lot less when he was doing his job. That had even been a mark of doing it well at one point. “I don’t see what interest Death Eaters would have in the floo network anyway.”
Vic stiffened and tried to school any expression on her face by taking another long drink from her glass.
“Right?” She scoffed. “Unless they’ve taken a sudden interest in traffic, don’t see what they’d care. My mother has never seen my job as anything other than dirt. They think things like the floo are beneath them.”
It was an unofficial confirmation of what her mother was, but it hardly mattered. What idiot thought Evelyn Mulciber wasn’t a Death Eater.
“I’m not surprised to hear they’d take some of the most important things for granted,” Byron said, tapping his fingers against the side of his glass. “But they’d have a much harder time getting around if it weren’t for transportation.”
Vic preened slightly at the complement of her important work. “Exactly, thank you. I mean does it surprise you? Purebloods have their heads firmly up their asses. Well, most of them,” she amended.
“A few of them aren’t so bad,” he said, slanting a grin at her. “I mean, it can’t be too terrible working with Lakshmi.”
Vic deflated slightly, grumbling into her drink. “No,” she admitted, sounding like it had been pulled from her painfully. “She can be alright. I guess.”
Vic brushed her thumb against the glass, speaking directly into it because she found she couldn’t look at Byron if she was going to go off script and be...nice.
“Thank you,” she cleared her throat, “by the way. For what you, and Lakshmi, said before. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said and tipped his drink to her before he took a long swig. When he set it down, he glanced at her and nudged his elbow against her arm.
“So, any good at snooker?” He tilted his head to indicate the recently vacated table on the other side of the pub.
Vic followed his gesture and grinned sharply. “Oh Byron, if you came here to be humiliated why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She nudged him back, lulled by this unexpected friendship.