4 October, 1894 — Daily Prophet Offices, London

Don Juan drifted around the perimeter of the office twice before he found the right desk. He'd been expecting an office under the circumstances, so he'd been scanning the small print of the doors for the right name, but these were all editors (or so their door-titles professed; Don Juan didn't read the paper consistently enough to know all the names). Eventually he turned his attention to the sea of desks in the center of the room. When he found the right desk and surveyed the man seated behind it he realized his first two laps were a fool's errand; this was not the sort of man who would have an office. He didn't even have a particularly good suit. Don Juan was almost disappointed. He didn't really want to be here in the first place, but if he had to trudge down here at least the ordeal could have had a suitable degree of drama.

There wasn't even a chair at the desk. What was he meant to do, stand around with his hands in his pockets while giving his grand confessional tale?

He cleared his throat and waited for the fellow to look up. "Abernathy?" he asked (needlessly, he was sure; this desk wasn't tidy enough that anyone else would have been chomping at the bit to sit at it). "Don Juan Dempsey." He presumed that someone had written ahead to the reporter and that the announcement of his name would be enough to kickstart... whatever it was that was meant to happen next. Something that involved slightly more privacy?

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