close enough to start a war

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Ophelia Vane basically escaped from a charity luncheon that she had been roped into attending with her mother, leaving behind a bunch of her mother’s socialite friends and upper wizarding society acquaintances and, somewhere, her old boyfriend. Luckily, Ophelia’s day after finally getting to the WWN news program’s office was busy, busy enough that she couldn’t stew on that day’s chance encounter and argument with Vincent Lancaster. The moment she arrived at the newsroom, she had more than enough work to do, and so the rest of the day passed with barely a thought given to the charity event and her conversation, if you could call it that, with her ex-boyfriend and current… rival? Settling at her desk for a little while, Fee immediately began writing her script for the night, a report she was handling herself instead of assigning it to one of her reporters. It was an area of particular speciality for her, and a big enough story, that she had been covering it on her own. Later in the afternoon, there was a staff meeting she had to run, then a meeting with the rest of the editors, and then more work on her current story.

If she hadn’t been so busy, she probably would have spent a substantial amount of her day complaining about Vincent, the charity event, the Daily Prophet, and somehow more semi-related topics, to anybody in the office. These arguments tended to rile her up enough that she wouldn’t shut up about it - she rarely shut up about things in general, to be fair - in addition to sitting in her office, turning the argument over in her head again and again, criticizing him more, and of course ignoring anything else she had felt upon seeing him. But before she knew it, she had only complained about Vincent once, sharing a quick general rant with the national news editor, and then it was time for the broadcast. Whether she was writing a piece for print publication or reporting a story on air, Ophelia was in her element in those moments. All of her anger that resurfaced when she saw Vincent that day was pushed to the side as she stepped into the studio to talk about that day’s top foreign news story. When she was done with her piece, she watched the rest from behind the scenes, drinking coffee that it was far too late for and making various comments to the staff around her.

Afterwards, though, the majority of the staff soon filtered out of the office, leaving for home and dinner and families and regular nights out of the office. Meanwhile, Fee was still at her desk as it got late. She had several pieces to edit, in addition to a draft for a print opinion piece that she needed to finish soon. There was also a stack of research materials waiting for her to go through for a bigger, longer-term piece she was working on. Ophelia was thinking that maybe she should just head home, with some of that research tucked into her back, and try to actually sleep at a decent hour, in terms of London time. She was permanently a bit confused with time zones, but she didn’t really like the idea of spending the night in her office again, awake or asleep. Then someone knocked on her door and she said, without looking up, ”Come in.” She hadn’t thought anybody was still in the office, but perhaps it was an overeager young reporter who wanted to ask a question or the overworked and dedicated executive producer wanting to discuss some issue with her.

Instead, it was Vincent who stepped into her office, and she stared at him with some confusion. “What are you doing here?” she asked, both surprised and challenging. ”Have you come to apologize for today?” Then trying to fill the awkward empty air and finding that she was actually unsure what to do just then, Ophelia continued, “You wouldn’t want to be seen here. You’re not particularly beloved here, you know.” Fee wasn’t exactly being harsh and bitter again, but there was a definite bite to her voice, some of her usual criticism and sharpness already creeping back in as a natural protection. But it was strange, seeing him stand in her office at the WWN, basically the rival of the Prophet and the news program that was staffed by people with plenty to say about that newspaper; she wasn’t alone here. Plus, it was like he was coming into her personal space, or work space, at least, and that was uncomfortable and new in the aftermath of their breakup. Ophelia couldn’t think of why he was even here either. What could he want to say badly enough that he would show up at the WWN, at her office, to see her?

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

As if being forced to attend yet another luncheon of high society witches and wizards for a charity he knew nothing about hadn’t been bad enough, the first moment he got away from the crowds quickly turned from relaxing to infuriating as his ex-girlfriend Ophelia Vane had shown up to make things that much more stressful. It had started off cold and distant and for a brief moment was reminiscent of their days together, though it hadn’t lasted long before she was once again being accusatory, blaming him for all the inaccuracies and false reports in the Prophet, pointing out articles that had been in his section of the paper, articles that should have been approved by him – and as far as any knew they had been (even when it wasn’t the case).

It had been enough to make him want to wander back into the chaos of the event and find a server with the largest glass of wine or Champagne available – but no, instead, his anger, his frustration and his irritation with Ophelia got the better of him and he had gone on a rambling, clearly annoyed tangent – she always seemed to get whatever it was that she wanted, even with him, even now. Just as he knew things were about to spiral out of control and become another screaming match between the two of them, his mother had shown up and upon seeing Ophelia he saw a large smile play on her face as she greeted her – and he almost let a smirk play on his face, hoping she could pull Ophelia into one of her long winded conversations so he could slip away – but he knew that was only hopeful thinking.

Fee had always had a way about her, she really could seem to get away with anything she wanted – including slipping away just before a real conversation could set in. She excused herself, leaving him with his mother on the balcony for him to listen to her complaints of how the two of them needed to talk things out, how she really had wanted her as part of the family and how it was selfish of him to break things off with her – even though it had really been an implosion between the two of them, initiated mostly by Ophelia but only intensified by himself until things seemed unsalvageable. Somehow though, no matter who you asked (other than his father, who no longer had anything nice to say about his ex-employee) it seemed to be Vincent’s fault that things had fallen apart.

Still annoyed he ignored his mother’s comments and she moved on to complaining about him sitting outside rather than socializing, which is what they were there for after all – so after she was satisfied with nearly yelling at Vincent about his responsibilities to the family he found himself back inside the hall – and Ophelia was nowhere to be seen, as he expected. From that point on he merely talked to a handful of people over a couple more glasses of wine – giving them just enough conversation and attention that his mother would leave him alone about it – until the event finally came to a close and he was able to leave with his parents and promptly excuse himself from there house.

After leaving his parents’ home Vincent went immediately to his office – spending only a few hours there to get articles edited and preparing things for the next morning’s issue to go to print. He met with one or two reporters to find out where they were on their pieces, collected drafts from a couple others for the next day, but for the most part, he kept to himself in his office. Once he was satisfied with what was supposed to be published – even though he knew there would at least be minor changes by the time his copy was delivered by the post owl – he decided to call it a night and apparated directly from his office back to his apartment.

Once he was finally back in his apartment he shed his suit jacket for the last time that night, took off the black tie, and unbuttoned his crimson dress shirt and laid down on his bed for a bit, letting the events from the early part of the day finally plague his mind. Vincent had been able to push his annoyance aside for the most part at work, simply not talking to anyone unless it was necessary – the office could always tell when he wasn’t in the best of moods (not that he ever seemed to be in a particularly good mood with his reserved and sarcastic nature) and they more or less knew to just leave him be.

Why did she have to continuously attack him on such a personal level? It wasn’t just about the paper and he knew that – but he couldn’t shake what she had said, ”Once again, Vincent, ‘this thing' you hate will end if you would just stop fucking pretending that everything is fine over at the illustrious Daily Prophet. That one statement had been enough to set him off – he wasn’t pretending, he knew damn well just how bad things were getting, he just couldn’t seem to do anything about it. His father wouldn’t listen to him – he had tried, not long before and again not long after Ophelia had quit her job at the Prophet, but it was no use. The answer was always, “When it’s your business, you can do things however you want – but while you work for me, you do things my way.” End of story – he wouldn’t hear it no matter how dramatically the problem was presented to him, because he was the one creating it and keeping it going.

At one point, yes, Vincent may have tried to ignore it, pretend like it wasn’t happening, hoping it would just stop or go away – but that never happened and things only got worse. Now they were reporting stories that he knew to be entirely false and it was driving him mad – but aside from not approving them himself, only to have his father or one of his goons push it through after the face, he couldn’t really see what he could do to stop this. Rolling on his side he grabbed the television remote and turned on the TV, letting it play the WWN broadcast as he did most evenings – Vincent being a fan of many muggle things had been one of many wizards to upgrade from radio to television years ago, even if his parents refused to keep up with the times that trait hadn’t rubbed off on Vincent.

Not exactly paying attention to the news at first, Vincent got up off the bed and wandered into his kitchen, pouring himself a very large rum and coke and then sat at his desk with the pile of mail he had been opening prior to leaving for the charity event earlier. Sitting on top of the pile, was the letter from an anonymous source who wanted to have their story heard – to have stories from the Prophet corrected and the truth brought to light. He would have loved to write this piece himself, to expose everything that was going on, to ensure that the right story was finally being heard – but he couldn’t even take the story to another publication, they would likely refuse to work with him on the grounds that he was the Prophet editor alone, knowing the decline in their publication over the last several years he hadn’t really had the opportunity to write anything outside of the family business in a while.

Just as he was reading over the letter again, his ears caught wind of that familiar voice coming from the television – Ophelia had just come on, reporting some big international news story – and Vincent immediately felt a bit tense and annoyed again and he took a long sip from his drink. He didn’t want to have the thought that just crossed his mind – there was absolutely no way in hell he was going to go to her for this, it just wasn’t going to happen (or at least that’s what he kept trying to tell himself). Setting the letter aside again, he continued to sip his drink as he watched her news report until the end – hearing her voice only making her words from earlier more prominent in his mind – maybe actually fucking do something.

By the time Ophelia’s news report as over with, he had already finished half of his drink and he tried to distract himself – putting the anonymous letter out of his mind for now, or at least trying to. He worked on editing a few articles he had brought home with him for a bit, couldn’t stay focused and decided instead to work on his latest novel – but that lasted about an hour and another drink before he couldn’t stay focused on that either and he went to sit outside on the small balcony outside his bedroom, his second drink in hand and almost gone. “Why the fuck does she have to be right…” he muttered to himself, finishing his drink and wishing he wasn’t about to make the decision he knew he was going to make.

After a few minutes of staring at the stars lighting up the night sky, Vincent knew there was no point in resisting – she had gotten to him today, and this time he couldn’t shake it. He was tired of seeing all the things his father was getting away with, all the lies, all the inaccuracies, all of it – and if he couldn’t put an end to it himself then he was going to need help – and there was only one journalist he would even remotely consider trusting with something so important. So he finished off his drink and wandered back inside, setting the glass down on the coffee table and heading off to shower and change once again.

Feeling much more comfortable and himself with his hair no longer gelled into place, a pair of dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt and a long, dark brown coat, decided it was now or never. Vincent took one last shot of rum before grabbing the letter of his desk, stuffing it in his coat pocket, then grabbing his wand and apparating from his living room to the entrance to the WWN. A sinking feeling hit his stomach upon arrival – this was definitely a risky move and he could only hope that she would still be in her office (and if he hadn’t known her better, he would have assumed she left hours ago with the rest of the majority of the team). When he finally reached her office he knocked and she told him to come in – presumably without bothering to see who it was, or he probably wouldn’t have been invited in at all.

Only a moment after letting himself in, Ophelia looked up from whatever she was working on to finally notice who had entered her office. “What are you doing here?” she asked, both surprised and challenging. ”Have you come to apologize for today?” Vincent rolled his eyes at this, and responded with “Hardly.” Vincent Lancaster, master of the single word response. Ophelia continued, “You wouldn’t want to be seen here. You’re not particularly beloved here, you know.” His hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, Vincent ignored this statement, he was well aware of his status when it came to other news publications – his father may be the one causing all the problems at the prophet, but Vincent’s name was the one being tarnished in the process, not his.

At first, he was quiet, observational, looking around her office at all she had going on – he hadn’t been to her office here ever, where he had been so comfortable in her space at the Prophet that he would even wait at her desk for her to come in some mornings, especially after she had been gone on one of her many adventures that he was so envious of. Ending the awkward silence he said, “I might not be able to do anything about what’s happening… but you can.” Vincent hated this, he didn’t like the idea of coming to her, maybe it was the alcohol that had made this seem like the right thing to do, maybe not – but he was now wishing he had prepared what to say beforehand rather than making the rash decision to just show up.

“I’ve got a story, and I know it won’t get published at the Prophet... I want you to write it and get it published.” he explained – short, simple and straight to the point, the closest he would allow himself to actually coming out and asking her for help.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Ophelia's evening had been going so well; she had too much work to do, and had just been debating staying here for hours or heading home to work there, but her report had been good and she felt like she was making progress on this big project she had taken on. But then Vincent had shown up, unsettling her by just walking into her office. In the uneasy silence, during which she didn't make any unnecessarily nasty comments or start the inevitable argument, she remained in the act of a working reporter, her pen still in hand and in the middle of the sentence she had been writing out, but studied him instead. Vincent had clearly been home at some point since the earlier event and now, standing in her office; he’d changed, wearing a much more casual outfit Fee thought she recognized, his hair looser without all that hair gel. Meanwhile, she was still in her dress from earlier, her hair as immaculate as ever, though she had kicked off her heels after the broadcast. She also wasn't sure when she would be changing into something more comfortable, considering the long evening of work ahead of her and Vincent's newly arrived presence in her office. He was short in his response, only one word: “Hardly.” She could practically hear the eye roll in that single word, even if she hadn’t been staring back at him with a challenging gaze that also served as a scrutinizing look. ”Shocking,” she replied in turn. Fee was hardly a one-word-response kind of person - she had a full opinion piece or lengthy articulate rant for anything and everything - but two could play at that game.

But then he was ignoring her, or at least ignoring her second jab at him, not rising to the bait. Instead, he looked around her office, this new place he had never seen. When she moved over to the WWN, she got an entire office to herself, as the international news editor. He had been a frequent visitor to her previous spots at the Prophet, a couple of workplaces as she worked her way up and got more space to herself. They had first become friends over talks at her desk, really. Here she had a full office; all the space had allowed her to fill up that space, and so her things had spread around the office. Books were crammed onto the bookcase, a tightly packed collection of books on a wide range of topics, from government and politics and history to magical medicine and entertainment and magical creatures, focusing on countries around the world. Piles of research materials and newspapers and magazines were on every possible surface. Various trinkets that she had gathered from her travels were displayed or tucked into little spots around the room, though her apartment was a thousand times worse after a lifetime of traveling. Her desk was covered by sheets of copy to edit and her own drafts, notebooks of interviews, some policy documents to read, and the remnants of her late dinner. Overall, the office was organized but chaotic (such a manifestation of her own personality and life, actually; worldly and intelligent but all over the place and messy, still looking nice on the surface).

While he fell silent and took a look around her office, Ophelia stayed quiet too, not making any offer for him to take a seat across from her. Instead, she considered him with that look of a challenge, but she was also a bit intrigued. What could possibly make him come here? He was on her territory, in a number of ways; giving her the power, maybe, by making the concession of coming of his own free will, for some unknown reason, and also stepping into the space of his rivals - the WWN and Ophelia herself - like this. But she wasn’t going to just ask him what was going on. Fee wasn’t going to give him that, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. But Vincent finally spoke again, breaking the awkward quiet between them. “I might not be able to do anything about what’s happening… but you can,” he said, obviously unhappy about it. His discomfort would have been funny to her, but there was something about this was just… weird.

“I feel like we’re taking a step forward, a step back,” Ophelia said, an edge to her voice, all sarcasm and sharpness instead of some form of twisted humor. ”You admit something is happening, but then you won’t do anything.” He pressed on, going on to explain himself. Vincent went right to the point. “I’ve got a story, and I know it won’t get published at the Prophet... I want you to write it and get it published,” he said, short and simple, even and restrained. Fee couldn’t help but still be surprised and taken aback; nothing ever really surprised her, but having Vincent Lancaster stand there and offer a story to her, hours after a bitter argument and two years into their disastrous post-break up relationship, was a bit shocking. Their current relationship was nothing but arguments and bitterness, deep grudges and anger. It was all restrained and distant on his side, so seeing him come to her was unexpected. It also went like a bit of a concession, which he seemed to feel too; he certainly didn’t seem pleased to be in this position. Now Fee had to keep herself from raising her eyebrows and really staring at him in outright surprise. She stayed calm and aloof, setting down her pen and leaning forward onto her elbows with the kind of daring look in her eyes that she got around him, as if daring him to go on with this ridiculous argument or, as in this case, idea. 

“Vincent,” she said slowly, simultaneously mean and gleeful, “Are you asking me for help?” This certainly wasn’t how she pictured her day going, especially after another one of their ultimately pointless arguments. Maybe not, she reconsidered briefly, if he was standing here. Vincent wasn’t exactly agreeing with her, but he seemed to be as close to that as he would allow himself to be. It didn't escape her notice that he didn't directly ask her for help; she knew he probably couldn't bring himself to do that. She couldn’t understand this, though - why was he asking for help? Why her, after everything had gone wrong between them, when she worked here and never, ever, let him off the hook these days? And, maybe most of all, she wondered what it was that had pushed him to come face her. Fee was curious, of course. After all, she was a reporter, and already someone who was inquisitive about everything. It was only a matter of time before her curiosity got the better of her, but for now she was holding back, not wanting to come out and admit that she wanted to know what he was talking about. Fee wasn't exactly inclined to help him, of course, but if he actually said he wanted - needed - her help, well, that would be extremely satisfying.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

When Vincent made the decision to head down to the WWN and talk to Ophelia about this story it was like he could feel his brain trying to tear itself in two – one side that wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking her for help, of admitting that she was right, any of it; and the other side telling him that it was the right thing to do, he needed to put an end to the lies at what would one day be his paper, otherwise what good would the Prophet be to him by the time his father finally retired and turned the business over to him? Eventually it had been the rational thinking side of his brain, the one reminding him that asking for help now would be better than trying to pick up the pieces of what may be left of the paper if things continue the way they are headed and he found himself knocking on her door.

Now that he was standing in her office it was too late – but that irrational side was still screaming at him for doing this, for talk to her, for asking her to do anything for him. She hadn’t helped any when she asked if he was there to apologize – they both knew that wasn’t the case, even if she didn’t know yet why he was there and that became apparent when she decided to play his game of short responses – not something that was usual for her in the least, Ophelia always had something to say, but she had probably been waiting for him to snap back to her comments that followed about him being here, which he had merely ignored, taking in the room around him.

For a moment there was deafening silence between them that he had almost expected Ophelia to break somehow – not necessarily in a polite way such as offering him a drink or a seat as she would any other colleague, but rather in with another snide comment about him, his father or the paper. Finally he broke that silence with carefully chosen words – he couldn’t change this, at least not directly, but she – she could actually do something about all of this. “I feel like we’re taking a step forward, a step back,” Ophelia said, an edge to her voice, all sarcasm and sharpness instead of some form of twisted humor. ”You admit something is happening, but then you won’t do anything.”

For a second, he almost held his thought to snap at her – a single comment in mind – Can’t, not won’t. Instead he continued to his point, short, sweet and to the point – there’s a story that needs to be heard, one that he can’t publish, so instead he’s offering it to her (or at least it seems like an offer – he didn’t intend to leave without her agreeing to this) to ensure it gets put out there. Vincent tried to gauge her reaction when he finished speaking, she was quiet for a second, almost a second of hesitation that if he didn’t know better he might not have noticed – this certainly hadn’t been what she was expecting when he came through her door – and to be honest it hadn’t been what he expected either, not until he actually left his apartment to come here.

“Vincent,” she said slowly, simultaneously mean and gleeful, “Are you asking me for help?” The way she set her pen down carefully as she looked up at him after that split second of surprise, the way she leaned across her desk in challenge, her eyes fierce as though daring him to continue talking about this without admitting that he needed her help. That, frankly, was a challenge he was willing to accept over ever coming out and directly asking her for help again – especially when it was because of her constant reminders to him that something had to be done that brought him here in the first place. “No,” he said, shaking his head, his fist in his pocket clenched tighter around the letter he had brought with him as he turned away from her and towards the door for a second – could he go through with this or would his anger and pride get the better of him?

There was another long pause, where he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to handle this. Under no circumstances was he planning on asking for help. Perhaps he had intrigued her enough that if he took off now, she would show up one day soon to ask him what the story about that he had needed her help with… but he couldn’t take that risk, he knew that. Whether he liked it or not this needed to happen. So he thought for a moment longer and turned back to her, choosing his words carefully. “I’m asking you to do what you do best, write an amazing story. Make sure people read it, hear it, whatever…” Vincent said in a matter of fact tone.

“This will either tank the Prophet, and my father and myself right along with it – or it will give him something to worry about and maybe he will clean things up or turn the mess over to me to handle finally… Either way, it will bring all of the lies and inaccuracies to a stop.” he continued, watching intently for her reaction, hoping his playing to her ego in the beginning, and giving her the motivation of possibly taking down his father’s reign at the Daily Prophet would be enough to convince her to hear him out about this story.

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

”No,” he said; he wasn’t asking for her help. She rolled her eyes, watching the way he was getting more tense and uncomfortable by the second, unable to admit he was, actually, here to ask for help. Ever a fan of one-word answers when he wasn’t getting along with Ophelia, Vincent fell silent again and looked away. Fee let the silence lie between them across the office, considering what to say while knowing that she wasn’t going to break this; he had come to her in the first place, so he was the one who had to speak up. She was interested, of course, and already had plenty to say, but instead she sat there, tapping her pen and studying him until he turned back to her. Speaking carefully, he said, ”I’m asking you to do what you do best, write an amazing story. Make sure people read it, hear it, whatever…” Fee raised her eyebrows, catching how he chose to compliment her for the first time in two years. ”So,” she said loftily, but almost offhand, ”you’re asking for my help.” It didn’t escape her that he seemed to genuinely want her to do something; he believed in this, whatever it was, and that certainly caught her attention. If Vincent thought it was important, she had to grudgingly acknowledge - internally, of course - that meant something. He was her ex-boyfriend, her rival of sorts, her target of anger and harsh criticism, but she knew he was a good journalist and editor, beneath the hesitation and lack of challenging. There had been a time when his judgment and opinions meant a lot to her, when she valued his writing and edits and thoughts.

Vincent went on to say, “This will either tank the Prophet, and my father and myself right along with it – or it will give him something to worry about and maybe he will clean things up or turn the mess over to me to handle finally… Either way, it will bring all of the lies and inaccuracies to a stop.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment as she analyzed that, which seemed to be Vince's newest tactic. ”It seems like this will also make your father hate me even more,” she observed dryly, sort of continuing to stall, and then amended, ”Well, if that’s possible.” The last time Ophelia had seen the elder Lancaster, he had been just as furious as he had been over the past two years; the situation certainly was not improving at all. If anything, he just had new things to hate her for, watching her work at the WWN, both her excellent work that was no longer done at the Prophet and the reports that went directly against the Prophet. The reasons she had fought and quit hadn’t disappeared when she went over to the WWN. It was almost funny to remember the way he had praised and valued her, Ophelia Vane, the star reporter. He had seemed to forget he had liked both her work and her on a personal level. 

Putting down her pen and leaning forward slightly, Fee asked, ”How is this one story going to end all of the lies and inaccuracies at the Prophet?” she asked, her tone critical and skeptical rather than actually interested. ”There are so many stories that you should be writing about, or writing about in a better way - not just one,” Fee pointed out. It all went back to their original arguments two years ago, the fights she had with the paper and then him, which led to the end - the destruction - of their relationship. They had continued to have these fights now, anytime they happened to see each other; Fee was waging a war with him about the general state of journalism at the Daily Prophet, often attacking him about particular articles and missed topics, of which there seemed to be no shortage. 

Vince was watching her carefully now, and she matched that with her own continued investigative gaze, even though he was someone she knew so incredibly well. It was her turn to stop talking as she eyed him across the desk and the office, as he still stood away from the desk, as if staying near the door. Maybe he wanted to be able to make a quick escape if Fee irritated him enough or he regretted his decision to come here too much to stay. Almost a glutton for punishment when it came to Vincent, she was fine in this uncomfortable, awkward position, this moment full of tension and bitterness. An argument was probably close, a handful of hours after their last one, and she got an irrational thrill of out of fighting with him, pushing his buttons and getting too close to their acrimonious relationship. As long as it didn't touch the aspects that were too personal, that is; the way they had loved each other, been together for four years, known each other for more years than that, the things and memories they shared that went beyond this terrible fight that had gone on for two years now, no end in sight. 

But curiosity got the better of her, as always. At her core, she was a curious person, too hungry for information and knowledge, impatient and unable to let things go. Finally, grudgingly, Ophelia asked, “What’s the story?” She said it in such a way that tried to make her sound casual, like she didn’t really care, but was asking out of obligation or maybe even out of more mockery. If she were a more self-aware person, someone who recognized more about this strange and difficult relationship they had fallen into, she would probably know that Vincent might see through that. He knew her too well, of course, to not be able to tell when she was interested in a story, after seven years of working together and simply knowing each other best. He knew her better than she knew herself, in some ways; she ignored parts of herself, her own feelings, and that itself was something he had probably noticed a long time ago. However, she couldn’t even realize that, of course.

[Alistair Vincent Lancaster]

”So,” she said loftily, but almost offhand, ”you’re asking for my help.” Vincent absolutely hated this – being stuck between trying to do the right thing and wanting to abandon this all together just to get out of this place where he felt unwelcomed and uncomfortable. Ophelia certainly wasn’t making what he was trying to do any easier either, knowing how much he hated to ask for help on anything, especially when that person was the very last person he wanted to be asking for help. Unfortunately she was also the only person he would trust with something this important.

Vincent didn’t form relationships or bonds with many people, an introvert born of suppressing his own thoughts, believes and passions to meet the demands of his parents pureblood heritage. Somehow Ophelia had broken through that barrier that separated him from others and protected his best kept secrets that would cause an uproar with his parents should they ever be out in the open. It was still an odd feeling – being practically at war with someone who used to know him better than anyone else (and probably still did). Even worse, if this were a war, he was asking the enemy for help – or really, how he preferred to see it, a collaboration to bring the war to an end.

He then went on to explain that this story was going to be big – it had the potential to ruin the already shaky credibility of the Prophet and all those who worked there – but he wasn’t going to give her any more information until he knew she was going to agree to take the story. ”It seems like this will also make your father hate me even more,” she observed dryly, sort of continuing to stall, and then amended, ”Well, if that’s possible.” To this Vincent actually found a small smile creeping onto his face as he spoke, ”Oh I’m sure it’s possible, he’s always capable of complaining...” His father had once praised Ophelia for her work – but as soon as she disagreed with the way he was running things that had been forgotten entirely, replaced with a loathing that seemed to have no end.

Putting down her pen and leaning forward slightly, Fee asked, ”How is this one story going to end all of the lies and inaccuracies at the Prophet?” Though he stood perfectly still, his eyes now locked onto hers, he gave away almost nothing – except that slight smile turning into more of a smirk he tried to hide when he realized his strategic words might have worked as she questioned him about how a single story could accomplish all that. ”There are so many stories that you should be writing about, or writing about in a better way - not just one,” Fee pointed out. At that comment Vincent rolled his eyes and the satisfied smirk he had been attempting to prevent turned into a look of annoyance, ”Yes, I’m aware.” he stated simply as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, hands still stuffed in his pockets.

She was far from wrong – there were dozens of stories each week, sometimes each day, being printed that were at least partially, if not entirely inaccurate or covering something else up. Right now he was trying to gauge how interested she was – because no matter how much she hated the idea of working with him again after everything he knew she would never be able to turn down a good story, it just wasn’t in her to leave the truth untold and that was one of the things he had always loved about her and one of the multitude of reasons he wouldn’t trust anyone else with this. Vincent was debating on whether or not he should just go ahead and tell her – she certainly seemed interested to a degree – Ophelia spoke up again, with the words he had been waiting to hear.

“What’s the story?”

Though her words sounded casual, almost uninterested, Vincent knew better – that vague tone was covering up a curiosity that had sparked that she simply couldn’t turn off. If there was one thing that he had learned from years of working with her, it was when she was interested in a story – and he had definitely gotten her attention whether she would admit it to him or even herself for that matter. In that moment Vincent grinned, and this time he didn’t try to hide the genuine satisfaction in knowing that she was intrigued – because that meant more than likely she wouldn’t be able to turn this down once he told her what exactly this was all about.

”It’s a source that says they have information regarding a lot of our inaccuracies that haven’t been pointed out or contradicted by other news sources…” he explained, his fingers wrapping tighter around the piece of parchment in his pocket that was from the anonymous source. ”It’s starts with one story – but I have a feeling that one story will lead to more, a sort of Pandora’s box scenario. I want to see how far this goes - but even if I look into it myself there’s no way anyone will take the information with my name and a single anonymous source, which again, is why I’m here."

[Ophelia Elisabeth Vane]

Vincent was actually smiling a little, probably without meaning to, as he responded, "Oh I'm sure it's possible, he's always capable of complaining..." and that was just too strange for her, to see that smile on his face, even now. Fee hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I've taken it on as a personal mission." It would have been a bit of sarcasm, or even a joke, if she wasn't so distant, so detached and cool. It was disconcerting, even to her in moments like this one, to feel how familiar these situations were, how similar they were to their old relationship, but so twisted into something different. Now she was cold and mean, when she could even now remember how she would have been sarcastic or joking with him. Two years ago, before they began fighting about the elder Lancaster, they had spoken easily of his family; she was the only one with whom he really talked about his family, or rather discussed them truthfully, as far as she could tell. It was the same with Fee; he knew all of the drama of her parents' incredibly dysfunctional marriage and the difficult relationships they had with their children. They had known all the details of the other's life, and those hadn't been forgotten. Any mention of his father, who was a frequent topic of argument now, still reminded her of this, when she wasn't blind with fury. Tonight she was able to hold back from launching into a rant on the subject of Vincent's father, but instead she was thinking of that Lancaster, of how she knew him, and knew his relationship with his son. Complaining, yes; Vincent and Ophelia knew all about his complaining.

This train of thought ended, though, as Fee couldn't resist shifting back to her usual line of attack. ”Yes, I’m aware,” he replied, and his smirk had disappeared. Vincent looked annoyed now, closer to the look on Ophelia's face and the way she was feeling. She couldn't even feel smug at his acknowledgement of her point. "You're finally making progress," she said, not as fierce as usual, because she was still distracted by the real topic at hand. "I'm so happy."

To Ophelia’s deep irritation, Vincent grinned when she finally asked what the story was. Her face hardened in response, almost glaring at him and the satisfaction that was on clear display on his face. She would have been silent in her own response even if he didn’t go on to explain. At least that meant that damn grin disappeared. ”It’s a source that says they have information regarding a lot of our inaccuracies that haven’t been pointed out or contradicted by other news sources…” Vincent began, and her eyebrows rose, just a bit. He continued, still relatively vaguely, ”It starts with one story – but I have a feeling that one story will lead to more, a sort of Pandora’s box scenario. I want to see how far this goes - but even if I look into it myself there’s no way anyone will take the information with my name and a single anonymous source, which again, is why I’m here.”

Fee looked at him hard and said, her voice stern, "And why should I take an anonymous source from you?" She studied him for a long moment, silent as she continued to turn all of this over in her mind. Tonight was really not turning out as she had expected. "But they'll take it with mine," she continued. It wasn't a confirmation or acceptance of his offer; instead there was a kind of question in her voice. Maybe she wanted to hear him say it himself; she wanted to hear him be honest and explain why he was here, at her office, talking to her, of all the possible reporters and editors he could have approached. As proud as Fee was of her work done at the WWN, she wasn’t proud - or arrogant - enough to think that she was the only one doing a good job, or even that the WWN was the only one who produced honest, truthful, and reliable reports.

"Vincent, you know I'm a foreign news reporter and editor," Fee pointed out, still stalling for time, avoiding a real answer. She was wary as she eyed him over the desk and all of her papers of stories she already had to work on. "I'm guessing this isn't international news. I could give it to our national news editor, if you really do have something worthwhile." Of course, he didn't know the editor personally, but he knew her very well, and he knew her work. Vincent probably didn’t like that editor, she guessed, and she knew for a fact that the editor didn’t like him either. The two of them frequently complained about Vincent and the Daily Prophet together, after all.

But Ophelia couldn’t avoid giving a real kind of answer forever. They would have to get there eventually, and she was too curious and impatient as it was, even though she was stubborn. Fee wanted to sigh, but she held it in and just said, still steely, "Well, I expect you have evidence from this source." She had shifted into a sharply businesslike tone, suspicion still lingering. Her eyes still on him, scrutinizing and skeptical, she extended an expectant hand. She hadn’t offered the chair opposite her to him yet, but asking him for evidence was a next step.