14th November, 1889 — Crowdy Memorial Library

There had been people laughing at him.

He was sure of it. Evander knew he was liable to overthink things, to face that fervent sort of delusion when he passed groups of amused people: illogical but still needling thoughts that they must, somehow, quite impossibly, be talking about him. And of course people had better things to do, had other thoughts to preoccupy themselves with, and he knew he was for all intents and purposes a dull human being; indeed, he did his best to be particularly boring, so as to spare anyone from having any opinions to offer of him at all.

Still, he had suffered being seen from time to time before, and knew how it felt. There had been the succession of deaths in the family, and the presumed death of his brother most of all: the lost expedition had been in the papers, obviously, and people’s pity had washed over all family members affected by it. And then, tenfold worse, when the expedition’s fate had been overturned, and J. Alfred Darrow returned to England: none of Johnny’s relatives had been exempt from the whispers then, sidelong looks and mutterings that varied, wildly, between worried and awed.

Unless Alfred had gone and done something newly outlandish or offensive, however, Evander wasn’t convinced his brother was to blame this time. And it had not happened as often as it had those other times, people’s quick little glances and suppressed laughs here and there - only in the last few days. Mostly ladies in the street, rather than people he knew. The Ministry had been mostly devoid of it, though one of the welcome witches had definitely taken to sniggering.

Though certain such things were supposed to die down on their own, the continuously sinking feeling of not knowing what constituted this week’s entertainment was wearing on him, and by Thursday, he was truly fretting about it. He’d seen the welcome witch flipping through its pages again this morning, and had spotted his own name on one of the headlines of this week’s Witch Weekly. 5 Facts, it proclaimed, but what sort of facts should prove funny? He could only imagine the driest things, like his date of birth or his office or the exploits of his better-known family members: what else could a rag like that profess to know about him?

Obviously, he did not have a subscription to the magazine himself, and he did not know where he was likely to find one to look at it. He had supposed he would have to order one by owl post, and had half-resolved to once he got home... Only, during a brief visit to the library on his lunch hour (there were certain legal records to be checked out on one of the upper floors this afternoon), Evander caught sight of a copy of the magazine itself in someone else’s hands. It was not easy to notice - they were flipping through it, he thought, almost furtively on their lap, a pile of proper books around them as though catching up on gossip had not been their primary activity. It was a discreet enough corner of the library, too, Evander supposed, still a public floor but with some comfortable chairs dotted about for reading, and it was not especially busy. He could wait until he got home and spare himself the potential (probable) humiliation, or he could ask politely to take a very brief look at it, scan the column to see what it was about, and actually manage to keep his head held high when he walked back through the Ministry atrium this afternoon.

Yes, best get it over with. It was only five facts: it could not be that bad. “Excuse me,” Evander uttered, clearing his throat as he approached the person surreptitiously engrossed in the issue of Witch Weekly, feeling the hesitation hit him all at once when it came to formulating his request aloud. “I wondered if - if it is no inconvenience to you - if I might, er - well, if I could - possibly have a quick look at that?” He said, gesturing helplessly at the half-hidden magazine.

---

Dear Merlin, she was from the Ministry too. And not just a welcome witch, but a proper professional. Head of the Pest Advisory Bureau: not the most glamorous of departments, maybe - not that Evander personally cared much for glamour, of course - but that she was head of any office meant that he might, conceivably, have to interact with her in future.

It would have been nice to believe otherwise. Because now he would know that she had read the article, and even if it were to be the most complimentary article in all the world he wasn’t sure he would be able to quite forget it in a decade. He hadn’t touched the magazine yet, and already he could not fathom that the flush on her cheeks might be at having been caught reading such a frilly publication (for Evander did genuinely think anyone employed by the Ministry as being inherently sensible, in that manner, and thus unsuited to gossipmongering); no, if she were embarrassed it all must be secondhand, having read whatever she had about him.

It did not bode well for him, in short. Really, if he had a better sense of self-preservation, perhaps he ought to have forgotten his request entirely and just fled... but she had already passed it to him, his fingers fumbling with the corner of the front page as his eyes slid across the headlines. Something about a Seer, because of course frivolous subjects like Divination were placed front-and-centre, and then a few advice columns and something about distress. Perhaps he would have to read that in quick succession, Evander thought darkly to himself, fearing the distress he might shortly be enduring. Whyever anything about him - a sensible sort, the most sensible sort one could find! - had ended up in combination with such subjects, he could not comprehend. They must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel for their subjects. Journalism, for you.

Miss Goyle had not said a word, nor had seemed able to look at him; but Evander supposed he ought to be especially grateful for the latter as he turned his attention to the particular page, feeling a flush creep up around his ears quite as soon as he began reading.

By the time he had read the second fact, the flush had fully flooded to his cheeks. Perhaps even down to his toes. He could certainly feel the heat at the back of his neck as he continued reading - or tried to, knowing that he had an audience and thus trying to remain as stoic as humanly possible, which was leading to rather a lot of frantic blinking. Like that might communicate his disbelief.

He hadn’t even gotten to the end before he found himself scraping back a chair opposite her and falling into it, privately relieved to feel a little steadier and hoping he might be able to find a little more perspective from a more secure vantage point. But things seemed to go from bad to worse the further he read, from a bad memory of his schooldays, to a more recent bad memory of the boggart, to his father’s death - painful still, and embarrassing, too, but Evander was used to having had embarrassing relatives, and not so much being the embarrassing relative - to another public scene he had so far thought he had avoided remembering, an accident that really had not been his fault. And they had left the most indecorous fact until last, and it was not something Evander recalled ever saying to anyone, nor something he had ever wished to see addressed in print.

“Facts,” he murmured faintly, “facts. Where they...” He shook his head, talking mostly to himself - and so nonsensically it was as though the article had quite stripped him of the faculty of speech. It was also now Evander’s turn to determinedly avoid Miss Goyle’s gaze. “- entirely unsubstantiated, really quite baseless -”

Take the first fact, for instance, the fire in the Hogwarts library. He could point out the flaws with their account easily! It hadn’t been Arithmancy homework at all.

So... er. The horror of it was, Evander was becoming increasingly aware, that the facts were really not as baseless as they could be... and for a magazine with a reputation of rumour and scandal that fringed on libellous, they had for once apparently done exceptionally well on their research. But he could hardly say that, that Witch Weekly’s writers were mostly and horribly right.

That really only made it worse.

---

You've read it then, have you? Oh, to turn back time or vanish all memory of having heard of the article, never mind reading it! “Would that I had not,” Evander admitted miserably, letting his head fall into his hands rather than pushing the magazine back towards her as he probably ought. “I thought it would be better to know,” he said, caught between stiffness and helplessness, a little wary of where Miss Goyle would fall on the scale between amusement and sympathy. Know your enemy, and all that. Had she read it yet? He sorely hoped not. He wished that no one had bothered to read it all, but - too late, indeed, for that. He could only pray that his mortifications were still not as sensational as their usual doggerel, and would be washed away swiftly by the tides of other, juicier, more terrible scandals.

He could understand suddenly, more flagrantly than ever before, why someone might wish to set fire to the Witch Weekly offices, and Evander was not usually a man so easily tempted to arson. (A pity the last attempt at it had not stopped the magazine from springing up again.)

“I suppose you’d like it back?” Evander said gloomily, eyeing Miss Goyle for as long as he dared, given that he had interrupted her moment of - leisure, he would call it - and that she may indeed have already looked over that article with all of its mortifying facts.

---

Her sympathy was a mildly soothing balm to worse humiliation than he had faced in quite some time, Evander supposed, hoping as the seconds passed that the flush on his face would fade, too, that he might feel himself again. He could certainly not return to the Ministry until he had well and truly pulled himself together.

(Was it too much to request a memory charm to erase these short-term memories? Yes, too much, maybe. Perhaps if he had come across a close friend. Perhaps if he had a close friend.)

“Is that a promise, Miss Goyle?” Evander said instead, venturing a sheepish smile at her in order to silently thank her for her efforts. She probably was right: not many of his coworkers would dream of touching this sort of rag, not in his office and certainly not across the wider Ministry, so perhaps all he would have to do was duck out of sight of the secretary to withstand it. Although Miss Goyle read it, so who knew how many people had the same dark secret? (Shame his secrets were no longer blasted secrets.) Better not think about it, then; best lean towards this lighter tone. Feign a more indifferent nature than the one he unfortunately owned. “Have you some foreknowledge of the next disaster?” Society disaster, presumably. He doubted Witch Weekly was capable of accurately reporting anything important.

---

He managed a chuckle at her reply this time, which he supposed was a mark of her heartening effect - though he was certain if he thought too long about what the article had divulged again he would feel his spirits sink once more. “You’re quite right, of course,” Evander uttered gratefully, and then rather determinedly latched onto the adjacent topic she had provided, and made sure he had consigned the article about him to the past by flicking forwards to whatever horrors Witch Weekly had predicted for the next decade. “Though apparently we’re set to see the rise of a new world leader,” he quoted dryly, and slid the issue back over towards her, relieved to be rid of it. (He half-hoped that ludicrous prediction would come true, if only to ensure that everyone would have something else certain to talk about.)

“Thank you, at any rate,” Evander added in a lower tone, and a touch more tentatively. For Miss Goyle’s sympathetic ear, he supposed - and, with any luck, her discretion. (It was a little late for discretion, of course; and stemming the flow of gossip from whoever else happened to read the magazine was quite beyond her power.)

---

“As shall I,” Evander said dryly, grateful to her all the same. She had moved to put away the magazine, thank Merlin, but what Miss Goyle did when he left was her business alone, so he couldn’t count on it.

Nevertheless. “I’ll let you get on,” he added, getting to his feet and offering her a sheepish nod before bidding her good day. Hopefully he would see no one else who now knew a great deal too much about him for the rest of the day.

---