To say that day in July was hot, is like saying standing south of a blasted-ended skrewt would result in a warm tickle. I should know. I’ve been there.  I loosened my tie (a pointless muggle contraption) and tugged at my rust orange paisley shirt, as my proverbial thorn continued his tirade.

“…tinue to keep the most ridiculous hours! I can’t have my other, more reliable tenants upset because you feel it necessary to be stomping up and down stairs throughout the night!”

Pint Pot was a regular feature at The Leaky Cauldron. Tom the barkeep employed him; first as a doorman and then as manager of The Cauldron’s more permanent residents. His temper was as legendary as his minute stature. I gave him a sheepish grin as his face appeared to be inventing a new shade of crimson.

“What can I tell you Pot? In my line of work, you don’t just clock in and clock out. You want rent money you’re gonna have to let me do my thing”

Pot bristled. “Rent money? What rent money? You’re already three weeks behind!”

I could see his tiny fists balling tightly together, and I knew that I would have to placate him somehow.  I stood up, walked around my desk and flashed the tiny terror my best smile as I casually leaned against the desktop.

“Poootttt. Potty, Pinty Pot Pot," I purred with as much charm as I could muster, "I’ll get your money and some. I just need a little more time. I’ve had a lead on the Three Broomsticks job, and I’m expecting confirmation any day now. If my hunch is right, I’ll have enough galleons to pay you in advanced for the next six months!”

My words were met with a stony silence. All that could be heard was the rapid rattle of the sash windows that looked out over Charing Cross. Pint Pot closed his eyes, took in a slow long breath and exhaled.

“48 hours”

“Bu… But…”

The poisonous little midget strode across the room and towards my office door. As he twisted the handle, he turned looking directly at me.

“48 hours Gibbs or I’m taking back the office. I told Tom commercial rental was a bad idea, and now I have my proof! If I don’t have the Galleons in two days you’re out on your ear, and you can find some other poor saps to harass – SQUIB!”

With that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving me with THAT word ringing in my ears. Flopping down into my chair, I let out a huge sigh and grabbed for the nearly empty bottle of Fire Whiskey, I always kept in the top drawer of my desk for such days as this. Taking a gulp, I let the burning sensation numb my brain as I glance around my threadbare office and let my head fall onto the desktop. Today was just going to be one of those days.

***

I suppose I should introduce myself. To the uninitiated (that would be you) my name is Nicholas Clifford Gibbs (I’m pretty certain my parent's hated me) but my friends and casual acquaintances call me Nic. For the last year, I have been the greatest private investigator working within the wizarding community Truth be told, I’m the only private investigator working within the wizarding community. Have a case that’s so petty even the ministry won’t look into it? I’m your man. To date, I have worked precisely six jobs and five of them came from mad old Bo Fowler, who kept losing his equally bonkers wife – she failed to tell him that she was an animagus with rather amorous feelings towards a budgie that lived in the window of the Magical Menagerie. Still, a guy’s gotta eat.

Convincing the wizarding world that they need a P.I.  is no easy feat. But what they fail to realize is that I have a particularly unique skill set that could be useful in any given situation. Unfortunately for me, most folks can’t see past the one teeny-tiny flaw that has stopped me from gaining more meaningful employment. As you may have guessed from the rantings of the obnoxious midget at the start of this story I am, in fact, a squib. Please, I don’t need your sympathy. I’m comfortable with who I am. It’s the rest of the world that seems unable to see past the fact that I am ‘magically deficient’. What? You think I wanted this job? Let me tell you, dear reader, I wanted to to be Auror, at the very least, a member of the department of magical law enforcement. I even took a test; but no, instead I have to learn how to use the muggle interweb and train to be a private investigator (a gruelling ten minutes of having to learn how to ‘e-mail’ a college in Honduras; who promptly replied with my official certificate). Which brings us to where I previously left you: With my head in my hands bemoaning my lot and desperately trying to think of some way of raising the necessary galleons required to keep my business running. I let out a muffled moan. It seemed hopeless. Jobs don’t just appear at the door.

The door creaked open and I looked up slowly a tall, elegant figure stood, silhouetted in the doorway. 

My life was about to turn into a whole bag of crazy…

Up Next: The girl with the hazel eyes.