After having read the response to his Owl to the Editor, James was feeling somewhat annoyed. It hadn't received a good response, that was certain. Of course it had probably been replied to by a bitter, closet Squib whose life was nothing but misery and worthlessness.

James took a bit of solace in that, even if the situation somewhat mirrored his own (bitter closet homosexual was far better than miserable Squib, by far) and had largely put the owl out of his head.

Besides, all of the planning that was yet to be done for the grand opening party for the Magic Mirror was really taking up his time. He supposed he should be paying people to do this but things were doing were worth doing yourself, after all.

James moved the proposed plans for where the ice sculpture of a wizarding family was going to go aside for a moment to look at what was rather more important: the copy of an up-and-coming young theorist's book on the nature of magic. Interesting stuff, though his mind was more turned towards spelling and syntax.

He was just reviewing some of his edits when his secretary knocked gingerly on his door.

"Sir," she said, timidly, "There's--there's a man here who says he wants to see you. I said--I did say you were busy but--" she said.

"Send him in, then," said James, cutting her off. He didn't have time for her inane prattling and he wanted to get down to work. Sending away visitors might get him a reputation - and unwanted reputation, at that.

It didn't take very much to enrage Cal. But it took quite a lot to get him angry enough to write in to the Prophet. The letter, admittedly hyperbolic and a little embarrassing (luckily, it had been anonymous), was far from enough. He wanted to speak to the perpetrator. Speak to, possibly dismember, possibly melt the flesh of--any of the fantasies clicking into place in the back of his mind for the last few days.

He hadn't worked for James Edwards for this long without picking up a few hints as to his writing style. The pedantic subclausistry, the tone of wheedlingly false rationality; he'd gotten into arguments with the man before, when he'd tried to impose the absurd style on Cal's own articles. This would be infinitely more satisfying, even if he couldn't go in his own skin.

The question of whom to Polyjuice had been rapidly, if somewhat unsatisfactorily, decided for him: the only Polyjuice had had about was, of all people's, Everard's. At some point, Cal wasn't precisely sure how, he, Jasper, and Everard had decided it would be a good idea to keep some of Everard in reserve, just in case. In case of what they'd never determined; it was one of the elements of the plan they had concocted only halfway and at the last minute.

He stopped in the bathroom of a dim pub on his way to Edwards's office to take the potion, so he'd have as much time as possible in his borrowed body.

It wasn't such a terrible idea, Cal thought, pinching his nose and tipping back his head, vial of essence of Everard poised above. It was a curious clear gold, not unpleasant. It tasted of faintly rotten strawberries; the aftertaste was stronger, and Cal had only just started to gag when the pain of transformation began. He lurched sideways and had to grab a corner of the sink to stay upright. When, some minutes later, he came back to himself, blinking, it was all he could do not to sneer at his own reflection in the mirror. His jacket was now a bit too tight across the shoulders; he unbuttoned it. Ugh, Everard. Maybe Edwards would go after him after this.

Humming to himself a little nervously, hands tucked into his pockets, still getting used to the new stride length, strength, and balance of Everard's body, he made his way to Edwards's office.

"Here to see Mr. Edwards," he said to the secretary, and realized he had forgotten a false name. Luckily she didn't ask, only returned a few moments later to let him know Edwards would see him. Yes.

He opened the door to his office carefully; shut it behind him; and stood facing the man in question, who had a copy of that day's Prophet open on the corner of his desk, turned to the letters page. Knew it.

"Mr. Edwards," he said at length, wondering what the Ferox glare looked like on Everard. "So nice to meet you." He took a few steps forward. it wouldn't do to be overtly threatening yet; Edwards would only call to have him tossed out.

James found himself wondering just who would be visiting him. He had no appointments and anyone that needed to speak with him had already made one, so this was quite unexpected.

Still, what was life without a little surprise? He watched the door interestedly until the form of a slim male entered. He knew the face - vaguely, at least - and supposed that this man must be from one of the Pureblood families (even if he himself was halfblooded, which wouldn't be surprising in the current climate).

The man entered and spoke, and James noticed a eerily familiar - yet completely unfamiliar - glare. What had he done to provoke such hostility? The man stepped forward after he finished speaking, leading James to reach for his wand (conveniently placed in his robe pocket).

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name, Mister...?" he said, as politely as he could manage under such circumstances. He had no idea what this man wanted and quite frankly he didn't want to find out.

It was downright rude and mannerless not to introduce oneself, something that any self-respecting Pureblood (or even a trained halfblood) would never forget.

Cal's eyes flicked downward. Edwards was going for his wand; he'd caught on faster than Cal had thought. He felt so strangely predatory. Something about the body he was in, some chemical shift; he was always angry, but he usually felt ineffectual, befuddled. Something about--not Everard, it wasn't Everard, it was not being himself. Exactly that.

He took a rapid step forward, following the shifting motion the man made. Then, with a speed and force he could manage only because he was in Everard's body, he wrenched Edwards's hand out of his pocket, grabbed the wand, and snapped it in two.

It died in a fizzle of pale sparks, and he tossed it aside, still holding the publisher tightly by the wrist. A parody of what Atlas had done to him; or some sort of retribution--anyway, he was flooded with hideous, gasping glee.

"Afraid, without your magic?" His lips had caught themselves up in a snarl, his free hand bunched into a fist.

"Take a guess why I'm doing this, just take a guess--"

James sat silently in shock as his wand--his wand--was snapped in two and his wrist grabbed. Rising to his feet as the other man said something quite incromprehensible (due to James's less than calm state), James ripped his hand away from the other's grasp and glowered at the man.

"Just what in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?" he said angrily, red in the face and gesticulating wildly. "Storming into my office, snapping my wand--" His entire body shook with anger as he saw the broken, lifeless pieces of his wand on the floor; not only would he have to buy a new one, he would have to break it in again.

In a fit of rage, he swung his right fist up into the man's face. There. That should do it.

Just what sort of arsehole broke a man's wand anyway?