Humming a melody that sounded a little bit, but not completely, unlike Three Yoked Oxen in the Qinling Mountains, Pepper went about setting up his workspace. He'd been given a desk near the imposing door leading into the Archives, and whenever someone went in there to look something up, the scent of old parchment drifted over to where he sat.

He didn't mind though. From his bag, he extracted a small silver frame containing a photograph of himself and his wife. It showed the smiling pair of them, standing in front of Tian'anmen. Pepper was wearing a faded T-shirt with the album cover that had given him his name printed on the front.
The second item in his bag was a lot heavier and required careful handling. It was an old Underwood typewriter - Pepper had bought it when he'd first moved to London, as a sort of present to himself. It was purely mechanical and therefore worked even in the magical environment of Diagon Alley. He was perfectly capable of writing with a quill or a pen, of course, but the heavy clicking sounds the types made were strangely satisfying. (Just to him, of course. They regularly drove his co-workers nuts.)

The Underwood carried an engraving:

GOOD INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM IS A THING OF THE PAST.

With a contented sigh, Pepper sat down, surveying the array of desks around him.