After a couple of years, you'd think Kevin would have been used to the late nights, the early mornings, and the meaningless "human interest" stories Carlisle sent him out on in Muggle London. Today, naturally, was no exception. Kevin had just finished grabbing color from a local vintage clothing store owner who hoped to open a second portal between Diagon Alley and London. The man was a bloody moron. The Ministry was never going to allow his foolish request, but his quixotic idea still qualified as "news", at least to Kevin's editor, so there he was.
Coffee and typing were to be the order of the next several hours. If Kevin could get at least the top of this mindless article squared away, maybe he could go out and have a few somewhere. That plan, of course, relied heavily on Kevin's wakefulness, which was now in question.
He ducked into the nearest coffee shop and bee-lined to the barista, asking for a dark-roast coffee with sugar, no milk. He breathed a sigh of relief on paying for it; his caffeine fix was now only minutes away. Turning to find a table to set his laptop up and hope he might even find a wireless connection, his eyes landed on a quill lying in front of a rather diminutive character who had a similarly shaped notebook to his own open.
A quill. Kevin abhorred quills, they were a pain the arse to write with and consistently unreliable. But besides all that, they were a hallmark of one thing: Kevin was not the only wizard in this cafe.
He shook his face once to help him re-school his features into "reporter mode" (the better to brashly approach strangers with, my dear). Sauntering over to the table, he asked casually, "this seat taken, or should I conjure another?"