Transfiguration, Atlas decided, was probably the most useless skill ever created. He would even go so far as to say it had been created as a part of an elitist system whereby the rich stayed rich and poor stayed poor. The explanation didn't make a great deal of sense as he knew that monetary wealth and magical ability certainly didn't go hand in hand but frustration had a way of twisting thoughts into odd directions. He had taken him the better part of the day to find a suitable object (a broken piece of pipe retrieved from the alley) and then still more time transfiguring it into a proper cane.

He still hadn't been able to purchase a new wand yet and so Jasper's, which he had nicked from the other man that morning, had had to do. The thing, like most of Jasper's possessions appeared to be more attractive than useful. It wasn't really advised to use a wand that wasn't your own but sometimes exceptions had to be made. With the completed cane he knocked it against the brace still imprisoning his left leg and listened to the hollow thud. Sighing Atlas heaved himself upright mindful of the way his sutures stretch and his arm twinged he managed to shrug into his over large coat. It was as cold as winter tended to be in London but he was wary of anything that might cause him to be trapped in Mungos again.

There were things that he needed to do and he certainly wasn't going to accomplish them with Rudolph standing over him harping and trying to jam every type of soup on the earth down his throat. Navigating the stairs was an exhausting exercise in and of itself but the Prophets offices weren't really that far. He could sleep later. Carefully picking his way through the crowd, glad that no one seemed to take notice of him as he hobbled along, he made his way to the prophet.

He pushed the door open glancing around the lobby. It was getting to be late afternoon and the lobby and its connected corridors seemed to be largely empty. There were a few hushed words between him and the secretary. After an elaborate story about wanting to look for information about his great uncle Topston she pointed him in the direction of archives.

Another wobbly trek later he found himself standing in what must have been the archive room of the Daily Prophet. It smelled a bit like the old Hogwarts library. “Hello?” His voice didn't echo back and was instead muffled by the stacks of parchment all around. He had been told there would be someone here.

The index project was coming along--slowly, but it was coming along. Fletcher had really started the project because he was finishing his binding projects so quickly--after forty years in the archives he had finished up most of what his predecessor had failed to complete and now spent much of his time just waiting for the next issue to come out so he could bind a copy of it for archival purposes. The current index only listed dates and headlines, so one could see what the headlines had been on any given day, but for the details one needed a better subject index. In three years, Fletcher had properly indexed fifty thousand issues of the Prophet--not as impressive as it seemed, as that was only about forty years' worth (the first few years hadn't produced as many issues as the later years).

He was taking a break from the 1911 papers to bind the latest edition of that day's Prophet, the third edition of the day--a record, all things considered. Usually there were at least four editions by now, and the Evening Prophet hadn't even hit the presses yet. Fletcher remembered one memorable day when there had been eight or nine issues of the Daily Prophet set out before the Evening Prophet came out. Fletcher usually only stayed to bind the first issue of that, but the next morning there had been no less than six issues for him to bind. Fletcher was about to file the paper away when he heard a voice calling, "Hello?"

Thinking it was another staff member--perhaps Ms. Snidgeton had called yet another meeting--Fletcher tucked the leather-bound folio under his arm and headed into the main part of the archives, to find a young man leaning heavily on a cane, looking rather as though he had been on the losing end of a vicious fight with a lawnmower. He was most definitely not on the staff of the Prophet, or if he was, Fletcher had never noticed him before.

"May I help you?" he asked, his voice typically quiet and well-modulated. He set the newly-bound paper on the desk, grabbed a scrap of parchment, and made a quick note to file the paper away when he next got the chance before turning back to the visitor. He really wasn't much more than a boy--about the same age as Fletcher's grandchildren--and he did look desperately tired. What such a boy was doing in the archives of the Prophet puzzled Fletcher.

There was only silence for a disconcerting amount of time. Time during which Atlas took a few careful steps into the room proper, head swiveling from side to side as he gazed across the room and its massive contents. Some of the shelves were meticulously organized while others were spilling over with parchment, some of which appeared to be on its last legs, dog eared and ratty. No sign of the archivist that the secretary had informed him, in a tone that suggested no interest in his quest whatsoever, would be able to assist him with his genealogical hunt.

Going through all these by himself would be a task he wasn’t positive he was yet up to. First of all the shelves were high with ladders running down their sides, should he need something located where his arm couldn’t reach he’d be stuck. Their was also the fact that as he squinted into to the dim lighting and looking at the markings at the sides of the shelves he found that he didn’t recognize the cataloguing system at all. Some of the paper rustled in front of him and further squinting produced a man coming out of the darkness of the labyrinth that was the archive department.


More silence as Atlas watched the man look him over, drawing back slightly. He looked dramatically better than he had a week before but it wasn’t saying much. If someone was really looking for it they’d still be able to make out the sign the veela had carved into his face, and where were other injuries which were much more apparent. Thankfully the man broke off from his assessment and spoke, May I help you? His moustache twitched pleasantly when he spoke it was oddly comforting.

“Yes.” Atlas shifted some of his weight, hoping to avoid the twinge he felt was oncoming. “I’m sorry to bother you but I was looking for some rather specific information….and I’ve no idea where to begin. The secretary at the front desk said you might be the person to see if I was trying to locate information from back issues of the prophet? A Mr. Parish?”

Fletcher smiled kindly at the boy. He couldn't tell if this fellow was nervous or in pain or both, but either way he wanted to put him at ease. "It's no bother. I'm not particularly busy at the moment...one good thing about an archivist's job is that nobody is particularly sure what I do, so I can get away with doing as I please. I'm Fletcher Parish."

Moving aside some parchment and unearthing a chair on either side of the desk, Fletcher invited the boy with a gesture to sit down before perching in the opposite chair. Leaning on the desk, he glanced around the room. "If you're looking for specific information, I'm sure we can find it. These articles have just about everything. I'm afraid I must warn you, however, that the catalogue is still woefully incomplete. I've been working for three years on a topical index, but I've only categorized a third of what we have here. About all we can do is search by date. If you have a general time frame, it might not take us more than a few days to find something."

Fletcher devoutly wished he was kidding with that last statement. There were close to three hundred thousand newspapers in these archives, and without a subject index, a time frame of more than ten years or so might just kill them both--especially Fletcher's guest. Pushing aside his doubts--maybe he'd be very lucky and the boy had a specific event on a specific date, or even a specific month, in mind--Fletcher asked, "Now, what is the information you specifically require? I'd like to help as much as I can."

The old man smiled causing the tips of his mustache to travel upwards and the ends to wiggle ever so slightly. Smiles were usually a promising sign, or at least a pleasant one. It's no bother. I'm not particularly busy at the moment... Atlas looked around the expansive space and wondered how it was possible not to be busy. It looked as if there was mountains of information here and very little of it categorized. Considering all the editions that profit put out on a week to week basis he suspected that this was a job that could never really be complete.

one good thing about an archivist's job is that nobody is particularly sure what I do, so I can get away with doing as I please. I'm Fletcher Parish.

“That's not a bad position to be in considering your new editor and chief. It's not a bad place to hide, I'm surprised that you don't have half the staff down here seeking refuge. It's nice to meet you Mr. Parish.”

The man made himself busy rummaging through some of the haphazard piles laid all over the space. After a few moments of shuffling Atlas realized that the documents had concealed two chairs and part of a desk. Once one of the spaces was uncovered he invited Atlas to sit and with a quick smile Atlas carefully picked his way over and settled himself down.

If you're looking for specific information, I'm sure we can find it. These articles have just about everything. I'm afraid I must warn you, however, that the catalogue is still woefully incomplete. I've been working for three years on a topical index, but I've only categorized a third of what we have here. About all we can do is search by date. If you have a general time frame, it might not take us more than a few days to find something. Now, The man clapped his hands together, the resulting noise was quickly snatched up by the volumes surrounding them. what is the information you specifically require? I'd like to help as much as I can.

That was certainly disheartening and Atlas was sure that his face showed it. Three years and only a third. It would figure that the Prophets writers would be prolific to the point of anyone working to catalog being unable to keep up. “It's just you on staff?” It seemed an insurmountable work load for one person. “Unfortunately I've no idea where to search in terms of dates. The information I'm looking for though is rather on the odd side...at least I think it is. Which might be helpful in determining where exactly it would be.”

“Honestly Mr. Parish I'm not sure if the Prophet would even have any of the information I'm looking for. I need to find some information about a Veela. A specific one. Possibly involved in some sort of military ventures? Maybe something with the Syndicates? Does that sound like anything you might have in the archives?”

“That's not a bad position to be in considering your new editor and chief. It's not a bad place to hide, I'm surprised that you don't have half the staff down here seeking refuge."

Fletcher caught himself before he really started to laugh. "If they tried, our new Editor-in-Chief would be down here huffing and puffing and blowing my shelves in looking for them. After all, they have their own jobs to do." Although Fletcher would have welcomed the company, he wasn't going to have anyone else lose their jobs over it.

“It's just you on staff?”

Fletcher nodded. "The binding spells really don't take very much time, and most of the rest of my duties are clerical. I started the cataloguing project as something of a sideline three years ago...I never dreamed it would take this long."

He listened to the boy's description of what he was looking for, a faraway look coming into his eyes. Fletcher had been archivist for the Prophet for the last forty years, and he had been reading the papers, both wizarding and Muggle, for thirty years before that. His mind was a catalogue of headlines, dates, and articles. It had made his task quite a bit easier, but at the same time dates could occasionally get jumbled.

"It's striking a very, very distant bell," he said thoughtfully. "Veela...I...oh, I'm sure there's something..." He narrowed his eyes in thought, then finally said, "Veela age about the same as humans...how old, would you say, is the veela in particular you're looking into?" If nothing else, they could narrow it down to ten years or so.

The little man stifled his mirth in one closed fist held to his lips before answering with his own assessment of Carmen. Likening the woman to the big bad wolf seemed to be giving her a rather large amount of credit. If Atlas had been given sometime to think it over he would have chosen a different fairy tale villain. Maybe still a wolf, the kind that lured little defenseless girls off the path to grandmas and then devoured young and old alike. That, or one of the bitter hag queens who tended to roam around bearing poisoned fruit. He made a mental note not to accept any fruit baskets that could have even had a chance of coming into contact with the now editor in chief.

A nod came as the answer to why there wasn’t another soul in the area save the two of them. I started the cataloguing project as something of a sideline three years ago...I never dreamed it would take this long. Not realizing how long the endeavor might take seemed almost unbelievable to Atlas. A cursory glance around the place revealed stacks of parchment, spilling all over from peaks, the summits of which Atlas had to squint to be able to see. But he kept quiet, not wanting to offend someone who seemed both eager and able to assist him.

The look that came across his face when Atlas presented the information he was looking for was slightly glazed but no less alert. It seemed as if working down here, indexing, filing and cataloguing over years had permeated into the man gifting him with almost encyclopedic knowledge of the Prophets contents. Something that was rather impressive to watch, hopefully it was a skill that could be utilized to Atlas’ full advantage. He waited.

It's striking a very, very distant bell. Veela...I...oh, I'm sure there's something... It was promising at least. The man seemed to have concluded his mental run down of the index and now looked positively pleased with himself. Atlas allowed a smile in return. Veela age about the same as humans...how old, would you say, is the veela in particular you're looking into?

He tried to remember her face, the one that looked human because he doubted that there would be any photos or mention of the creature in her more volatile form. “She looked young…it’s hard to tell with them they sort of have a glow all their own. Personal cloaking device. Young, but adulthood somewhere between mid twenties and thirties. Possibly affiliated with criminal activity, though not necessarily so.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose in agitation. “I’m sorry. These are all very vague, I’m not altogether sure what I’m looking for. But finding any mention of any veela could be a start, they aren’t exactly common place.”

Fletcher smiled kindly in response to the young man's answer, hoping to put him at ease. "That's all right. I remember my oldest son doing a research project for his Charms class...the professor had mentioned an obscure charm on the last day of class and set Sammy the summer to learn all he could about it. Sammy didn't even know what the charm was called or how to spell the incantation..." He stopped, realizing he was about to go off on another unhelpful tangent, and broadened his smile. "But he finished the project and so will we."

He stood up, becoming businesslike. "You say she was in her mid-twenties to thirties...well, that does narrow things down quite a bit, actually. I'd say it was highly unlikely, if this Veela was involved in criminal activity of any sort and would make a name for herself in the paper, that she would have been mentioned before the age of twenty. Therefore if we assume she is thirty-five, there may be some mention of her in the last fifteen years." He touched a hand to his moustache again as he recalled something. "If nothing else, perhaps we may find mention of her in a birth announcement from between thirty-five and twenty-five years ago. Fortunately, those are only one one page--page twenty-four, I believe. Publishers are nothing if not consistent."

Turning towards the archived volumes, his sleeve brushed a precariously perched stack of miscellanea and caused it to slide, slowly but inexhorably, towards the floor. He slammed a hand down instinctively on the stack, halting its fall but raising a cloud of dust. He coughed. "Sorry about that. Once I get finished cataloguing back issues of the Prophet, maybe I'll do something about getting all these papers filed. People do tend to treat the archives like a giant wastebasket--if it's been written on, chances are a copy of it got sent down here. Interdepartmental memos, press releases, love letters, grocery lists, cocktail napkins that have been scribbled on...you get the idea."

He turned back to his visitor, realizing that his babbling had distracted him from the question he had intended to ask. "Would you like to work chronologically backwards or forwards?"

There was something Atlas found to be very comforting about old people, though he wasn't sure that it was a something that he would be readily able to identify. he supposed that it could have had something to do with the fact that the individual had lived enough (and by proxy survived enough) to develop into an old person. It implied a certain amount of vitality while at the same time proving that, in general, regardless of what your problem was at the moment it was certainly a survivable one.

It also helped considerably when the person in question had a mustache. Atlas was of the opinion that one could tell a great deal by looking at a person's mustache. Well kept and professional? Good sign. Errol Flynn? A little bit of a playful side matched with debonair suave. Mutton Chops? A clear sign to alert the authorities before the fiend in question could carry out the facial hairs dark and evil bidding.

Fletcher was thankfully sans mutton chops and so Atlas was able to return the smile the archivist aimed in his direction as the man relaid an antidote about one of his children. But he finished the project and so will we. He concluded before rising from his seat, pulling down on his jacket to get it into its proper place.

Bustling about the room Fletcher began to assemble the information that they had at hand and then document just what they might be looking for and where they might be able to find it. The revelation that the prophet had birth announcements consistently on the same page was one that Atlas could have kicked himself for not realizing sooner but it also brought with it a jolt of hope that this might not be so hopeless. The good feeling didn't last long though when he remembered her voice. Strange accent, certainly not English.

Atlas was interrupted from the thought when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, followed mere seconds later by a slam of flesh against parchment. Making sure to repeatedly inform his mind that the sound wasn't anything that could harm him (save give a mild paper cut) and that the area was completely secure he rose out of his seat and took a few hesitant steps forward. He'd barely managed to extend a hand to attempt to assist in righting the pile when he noticed that Fletcher, with motions that looked like perfectly practiced ease righted the stack and continued on.

Sorry about that.. He apologized as if he has been able to sense Atlas' ill ease at the situation. People do tend to treat the archives like a giant wastebasket--if it's been written on, chances are a copy of it got sent down here. Interdepartmental memos, press releases, love letters, grocery lists, cocktail napkins that have been scribbled on...you get the idea.

Nodding Atlas glanced down at a haphazard pile containing most of the items that Fletcher had just mentioned mixed among the actual copies of the Prophet itself. "I can understand the frustration but sometimes the miscellaneous scrap is the most interesting to examine. All sorts of things can crop up." He lifted one from the top of the pile, a post it, half torn that contained a strikingly accurate image of Apollo, impaled on what looked to be a radio tower.....Atlas set it back down. "Not that I mean to imply that its the right of people to just send whatever refuse they have down to you sir."

He looked up to find Fletcher very close and peering up at him inquisitively. Would you like to work chronologically backwards or forwards?

Considering the question for a moment Atlas finally answered. "Forwards Starting at the beginning, good place to start and all that. I'm not sure though if the birth announcements will be any good though. Her accent certainly wasn't English. More Slavic...slightly welsh. At least if I had to identify it with human languages. She might have some connection to Irish pure blood families...but thats only my speculation rather than concrete information."

ooc Hey sorry this took so long its been a really bad couple of weeks, I hope to have better response times in the future. Other thing to note is I think Shallah is actually something like a 150 years old or so. Niff's profile would have more information. Sorry again!

"I can understand the frustration but sometimes the miscellaneous scrap is the most interesting to examine. All sorts of things can crop up. Not that I mean to imply that its the right of people to just send whatever refuse they have down to you sir."

Fletcher smiled as he noticed the "document" the young man had just examined, a Post-It note that had come down as part of Carmen Snidgeton's semi-daily desk cleanout. "No, you're perfectly right--all sorts of interesting things come down here, and some of it is well worth reading, which is why I plan to file it properly. Although I must admit, even an archivist can't find much use for a detailed comparison of the Editor-in-Chief to Darth Vader, or a drawing of the spirits of the great columnists of the past bludgeoning the gossip columnist with rolled-up newspapers, except for the humor value."

He merely brushed off his visitor's concerns about the woman's accent, however. "The Prophet does occasionally get international birth announcements of note. And even if they haven't, we can at least take a look and see if she's listed. If we don't find anything there, we'll take a look at a few more recent papers. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure I've seen something about a veela in the last few years." He smiled encouragingly. "We'll see what we can find. Come on, I'll set you up with a table and get the first few papers."

Fletcher led his visitor to a table relatively free of clutter--the one Fletcher used as a workstation from which to bind and catalogue--and then vanished into the archives briefly. He returned a moment later with a stack of leather-bound folios, each no more than a centimeter thick, and set them down on the table. "I don't know if I mentioned this before, but each day the Prophet puts out anywhere from one to five editions, and that's not including two or three editions of the Evening Prophet," he explained. "Later editions generally include all of the articles from earlier editions, but they've been corrected or updated, and often new articles the publisher doesn't want to wait another day to get out to the public are added as well. With that in mind, and in the interest of not killing both of us from research overload, I've only brought the latest edition of each day's paper. This"--he tapped the stack of books lightly--"is the first half of 1984, which I think is as far back as we probably need to go, and this won't take us long because we only intend to check the birth announcements. If you'd like to flick through the whole paper and see if we can spot something about veela, that's fine as well."

Pulling another chair out from the desk, Fletcher sat down and pulled one of the papers off of the desk, then flipped to page twenty-four. His memory had not failed him. "Yes, the birth, engagement, and wedding announcements are all on pages twenty-four and twenty-five, Mr.--" Fletcher stopped and glanced at his visitor curiously. "I don't believe you mentioned your name, actually."


((OOC: Don't worry about it...as you can see, I'm not exactly the world's swiftest responder either. And I didn't really expect to find anything anyway...no worries there, either. ;)))