No Laughing Matter

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rowan sat at her desk at the Prophet, and read the first paragraph of the article she was writing. She had been distracted all morning; her mind was with George and his family as they dealt with so many difficult things. She scratched out an ill-phrased sentence with her quill and began to re-write it, when a shadow fell over her desk. When she looked up, she was surprised to find her boss, Mr. Starsmore looking back at her.

"Mr. Starsmore, sir!" She greeted with a nervous smile. "How nice to see you this morning."

"I'd like a word with you in my office," he said without preamble. "Now."

As she stood and followed him through the labyrinth of cubicles that made up the newsroom, she noted that many of the other reporters were looking at her with varying expressions. Some looked surprised; some were staring with trepidation, and others with frank curiosity. Rita Skeeter, who quill was scribbling away on her desk with out any attention at all from it's owner, had a thoughtful, yet satisfied look on her face that made Rowan's stomach flutter uncomfortably. Mr. Starsmore wasn't a man who socialized, and he didn't indulge in chitchat or idle gossip unless it profited the paper in some way. If he was calling an employee into his office, it was either a very good thing, or a very bad thing. Rowan wondered if the expression on Rita's face was an indication of what was to come. They had not gotten along well from the first day that Rowan had begun at the Prophet, and Rita had warned her that Rowan was 'looking for trouble' if she thought she could compete with a 'real' reporter who had been at the paper for the better part of twenty years.

When they reached the boss's office, he said simply, "Have a seat." He gestured to a comfortable red velvet chair, and rounded his impressively large desk to take his own seat in a throne-like leather chair. Evan Starsmore was a portly man; with a nearly bald head that most employees believed got that way from his pulling his hair out so often. He was a man with a temper, and no one wanted to get in his way when he was in a foul mood.

Rowan sized him up and thought that he didn't look to be in a foul mood today, though he did look tired. She sat in the chair with her back straight, and waited to find out why he wanted to see her. 'What will you do if he tells you you're fired?' a panicky little voice whispered inside her head.

"I won't mince words," he said simply. "I know you've only been here a few weeks, but you work is good."

"Oh!" Rowan said cautiously. This man seldom ever just talked; he usually shouted or yelled even the most common of phrases. She had gotten the impression over the past few weeks that he must be going deaf. "Thank you."

"It's been better than good, actually, and I think that it's time for a change." He said.

"A change from good?" Now she was just confused.

Starsmore leaned back in his chair, pulled a pipe from his drawer, and lit it with his wand. As the first few puffs of smoke emitted from his mouth, he leveled his gaze on her and said, "Rita Skeeter's been in to see me."

Rowan wasn't sure where he was going with this, but decided the silence was her best friend in this case. She sat stoically under his gaze, and finally he said, "She's been in here almost daily since you started here, complaining about you. Says you've been stealing her stories." Again, Rowan remained silent until she could discern where he was going with this. "That tells me something."

He set his pipe down in a tray that seemed to be made for that purpose and leaned forward again. They looked at each other silently for several long moments before he smiled. Rowan had never seen this man smile before, and had heard tales among the others in the newsroom that he never had before. Even when he was pleased, he would keep a straight face and yell out, "Good work!" or "Well done!"

"You've got Rita Skeeter scared of you," he said with obvious relish. "What do you have to say about that?"

"I haven't done anything to make her afraid of me," Rowan objected. That disconcerting smile widened.

"Haven't you?" he asked. "From the minute you walked in that door, you've been writing better stories than her, and beating her to the punch in some cases. You have a fresh outlook on things. When you've got one of our most seasoned reporters running scared, you can be assured you're doing something right. Maybe it's because you're young; maybe it's because you're an American - I don't really give a damn!" He shouted these last six words loud enough for the entire office to hear.

He watched her intently for a few more moments before she finally asked, "So is that why you wanted to talk to me? To tell me I'm doing good work?"

"Of course not!" he shouted in his usual manner, and then lowered his voice again to a conversational tone. "You know you're doing good work, you don't need me to tell you that!"

Rowan knew that he must have a point to make, and decided to let him make it in his own sweet time, rather than risk displeasing him. Luckily she didn't have to wait long.

"I'm giving you your own column. I want you to write a daily column for the Evening Prophet about general interest items of your choice. Your first article is due tomorrow. This is a promotion, so don't screw it up."

Rowan blinked and stared at him for a moment, then said, "I have a funeral to attend tomorrow."

"So write about the funeral then," he told her, as if this was the most obvious solution in the world. He got to his feet and walked her toward the door; "I'm guessing that it has to do with the attacks, so our readers should be able to relate to it."

Rowan wondered silently about that, but said nothing. He had, after all, left the content of her column up to her.

"Oh! And just because it'll stick on Rita's craw, I'm going to give you your own office. She's been getting on my nerves lately, and need to be taken down a peg or two. It'll be a small one, but you'll need it; Rita's likely to try and sabotage you from the get-go. She's wanted a column of her own for years, so I suggest you put heavy wards around your new digs. Don't think this is going to be a cakewalk. I still expect you to follow up on the Peter Pettigrew/ Sirius Black story you have going in addition to your column."

"Okay," Rowan answered. Her head was reeling and she didn't know quite how to react. "Thank you?"

"You'll be cursing me in a month, Winters," he assured her, patting her heavily on the back with a meaty hand. "It's the price you pay for brilliant reporting."

He opened the door to his office suddenly, and found Rita and two or three other employees blatantly trying to listen in on the meeting. Rowan had the distinct impression that those times he had reverted to shouting during their interview had been very much premeditated, and designed to give eavesdroppers the wrong impression until after their meeting was over.

"Get back to work, people!" Starsmore shouted, making people scatter in all directions.

Everyone, that was, except Rita Skeeter. "Need help packing up your desk?" she asked sweetly, clearly believing that all of her complaints had finally paid off.

"That's nice of you Rita," Rowan replied with an equally saccharine manner. "But I think I can handle the move on my own."

"The move?" Rita asked, looking confused.

"Barker!" Starsmore shouted across the room to a harried looking wizard with his arms full of files. "Show Miss Winters to her new office, then bring me a cup of tea!" He turned on his heel and retreated back to his own office and shut the door behind him.

"Her new office?" Rita shrieked, causing heads to turn, and some people to snicker. She marched over to Starsmore's office and clearly intended to march in and give him a piece of her mind, but found the door locked against her. She whirled to find Rowan trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, and vowed, "You'll pay for this!"

Rowan simply followed Shawn Barker to a small office on the opposite side of the newsroom from where she usually sat, and sat in her new chair with a wide smile. She would go and move her files and things in a few minutes, but for now, she simply wanted to bask in the glow of the praise she had received. Maybe she would even pick Rita up a little 'thank you' gift from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to cap off her day.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Carly was sitting at her desk inside her cramped cubicle at St. Mungo's, putting the last of her files in order. The Hospital had been returned to its normal state of affairs, and all patients were now being seen from the correct departments and on the right floors. She had purposely snuck in through a side entrance, and worn her everyday style of robes, instead of the lime green ones she wore when she was on duty. She had spent all morning sorting out he mess that had been made of patient records during the mad rush of the night before last, and was now doing her best to tidy up her work space and sort through her memos for anything urgent before sneaking out again. Toolah would already be working on filling a large hamper full of sandwiches and fruit and drinks for everyone already at work at the Burrow, and she was hoping to get out before being spotted by anyone who might try to put her to work.

As she was putting the finishing touches on an answer to a memo, she heard a familiar voice and cringed. Marcus Appleby's obnoxious laughter could be heard coming down the row of cubicles, and in her direction. Carly quickly reached into her bag for a package that she had snuck out of the house that morning, and pulled out three Canary Creams and small china plate. She arranged them on her desk, and broke little piece off of one, to make it look like she had been nibbling the treats, and then smiled to herself. "Bring it on," she thought evilly, as she heard him talking to the witch in the next cubicle.

Marcus was a Healer-In-Training that had been at St. Mungo's for a year before Carly had arrived. He had come here from Beauxbatons School in France, and believed himself to be charming and handsome and brilliant. He was handsome, Carly thought objectively, but that was where anything nice about him left off. Hw never failed to appear at her cubicle, help himself to anything she might have laying around to nibble on (usually sweets from a little dragon shaped bowl), and go over the reasons that he should 'get rid of' the 'red-haired buffoon' and date him instead. She had once made the severe error of speaking French in front of him, and so he had decided that they must be soul mates; nothing she had said could convince him otherwise.

"Ah, Carlotta!" he said as he noticed her sitting there. "Why didn't you tell me you would be here today? Hmmm?"

He immediately picked up a Canary Cream from the china plate, and continued on, "Are you quite rested from your ordeal?"

"Oh quite rested, thank you," she said with a wide smile that he would undoubtedly take for encouragement. She didn't even grit her teeth together at the use of her full first name. "I'm actually not on duty today; I'll be back the day after tomorrow. Don't let me keep you from your rounds, though."

"Nonsense!" he declared. "I always have time for you. I was just going to suggest..."

"Carly!" another voice cut smoothly over Marcus. Healer Swift had appeared and looked pointedly at Marcus, a silent dismissal, then turned back to Carly. "I'm glad you're here. I know you're not on duty, and this won't take but a moment, but If I could have a word with you?"

"Healer Swift; Carly and I were just sharing a morning snack. You can speak in front of me," Marcus said smoothly. "Carly and I don't keep secrets from each other." He took a large bite of the Canary Cream.

"Marcus," Carly said, standing and gathering her bag and cloak. "You are a twit."

She turned and followed the Healer, only looking back when she heard a pop. Marcus had turned into a giant yellow canary, and was glaring at her as she turned and left, chuckling along with everyone else. 'Maybe that will teach him to keep away from my desk,' she thought with satisfaction.

She followed the healer down that corridor and into his office, which had windows that looked out onto the Muggle street below. She took the seat that was offered to her and waited curiously to see why she'd been called in.

"I'm glad I caught you today," Healer swift began. "I'm going to be out of town for a few days and wanted to talk to you before I left. Don't worry, there's nothing wrong."

Carly had begun to feel worried, and relaxed a bit at this last comment. "What was it you wanted to talk about?" she asked.

"I just wanted to let you know that you have a decision to make," he told her. "I wanted to tell you about it so that you would have time to consider the matter before I return. You can give me your answer then."

Carly nodded. She was very curious now. At this point in her apprenticeship, she should be right in the middle of dull, menial tasks while she learned the basics of how the hospital was run, and working on her research project. She had only been an apprentice for a little over a year in America, and had been sure that the move to London would place her back on the bottom of that ladder.

"You handled yourself very competently the other night, and you impressed a lot of people. Word had gotten around that before you turned up here to help, you'd actually been in a battle with Death Eaters."

Carly nodded when he paused, seeming to want confirmation of the information he had been given.

When she didn't elaborate, he added, "So when you showed up here with a wounded man, you hadn't gotten word that you were needed here?"

"No, sir," Carly said, remembering the chaos well. "When Fred was hurt in the attack on his family, I brought him here and found out what had been happening all over the country. Fred was taken up for treatment, and I just grabbed a smock and got to work."

"Good, good," he murmured, making a note on a piece of parchment in front of him. "You arrived here shortly after midnight?"

"Yes, sir. I think it was closer to one o'clock."

"And you had worked a full shift on the day of October 30^th?" he clarified, but didn't wait for anything more than a nod. "And you worked triage, then on fourth and fifth floors until seven a.m.?"

"Yes, sir."

He made another note and then looked up at her and said, "Well as I told you, you impressed quite a few people. Not only patients, but several Healers came to me at different points during that night and told me what an exemplary job you were doing, considering the fact that you had loved ones who were wounded and having just come from a battle. I've got requests here from no less than three different healers who have asked to take up the position as your mentor for the remaining duration of your training. I know you technically still have three years to go before you're fully qualified, but I think that any of these three could help you on your road to gaining your qualifications a year ahead of time if you're willing to work hard. I have files here on all three Healers and their areas of expertise."

Carly took the offered files with a shaking hand.

"You've proven your worth here at St. Mungo's, even before all of this mess started up, and it hasn't gone unnoticed," he added. "I want you to study the file carefully and give serious consideration to each one before deciding."

"But," Carly could hardly believe such a huge opportunity was being handed to her. "Apprentices don't normally get assigned mentors until they have two years experience."

"As I said," Healer Swift smiled kindly at her. "You impressed a lot of people. Normally Healers don't request certain apprentices. Ever. They get assigned to a trainee and that's the end of it; you're being granted a special privilege here, young lady. Don't waste it."

"No sir," Carly answered automatically. "I'll give it very careful consideration."

He smiled at her in a fatherly way, and walked her to the door. Before she turned to go, he said with a twinkle in his eye, "Nice job with handling Appleby. It was your uncle who slipped one of those things onto my plate at tea not long ago."