Absit Omen RPG

Atticus handed the item over with a smile. "Pleasure doing business, Mr. Flint." He said professionally as he playfully dusted his hands off.

He extended his arms outward and stretched. Another day, another galleon. His cut wouldn't be massive but the relationship he was building would pay off over time, he hoped. He took another glance around the dusty old shop then back at the door. "Come, let's celebrate." He said as he gestured towards the door. "Too much time is passing without whiskey warming our bellies, no?"

“How about 10?”

Atticus smiled at the game began. He knew any half decent barterer would respond as Marcus did so he was pleased. He decided on the spot to give the man a good deal, because generating good will was never a bad thing and he'd been doing well for himself recently. The client would be happy and Marcus would be happy.

"Ten's a little light. My client's pride dictates it's got to be at least 12. Help me out here, twelve and then we can step out for a brew and a smoke." He said as put the top back onto the box and picked it back up.

Atticus smiled at the interaction between Marcus and his father. He gathered that they were a pureblood family, which made sense given the shop and circumstances.

“How much do you want for it?”

Atticus knew this game pretty well. Classic bartering. It was a staple at shops like Borgin & Burkes. He had not had the item appraised, other than confirming that it was indeed a Lens of Sanguinius. There were a few dozen lying around in Europe and who knows where else, so it wasn't unique. Still, who knew how many were in England. There were enough purebloods believing in the old ways around to have a market for it. This would probably be a quick flip for the shop.

"Fifteen hundred galleons. By Gringott's transfer, if you could, I haven't the strength nor stamina to haul that much coin over to the bank." He said, chuckling. He hoped that someone like Marcus understood that this was a jesting opening offer, but that Atticus was serious about its value. He'd be scooping eighteen percent out of this sale for himself. It might even be worth letting some of his cut go for the sake of helping the relationship. He decided to wait and see.

“Well, lets see it.”

Atticus reached into his pocket and carefully took out a small black box. It was a stained hardwood, and clearly well made. He placed it onto the counter and removed the top and placed it aside. Inside the box, laying on a pillow of silk was a black chained monocle. The glass had a strangely matte sheen to it as did the chain. Otherwise, it looked like a perfectly normal, albeit old-fashioned accessory.

"This..." He began, trying to contain his smile, "Is a Lens of Sanguinius." He said dramatically. He gently lifted it out of his box and let the lens swing slowly back and forth in his hands. "They're quite rare. This fine artifact lets you see a person's blood purity within a relatively high degree of accuracy. The redder an individual appears through the lens corresponds with how pure their bloodline is. The opposite of the spectrum is blue. It transitions toward blue based on how impure their blood is. This leaves most half-bloods in some shade of purple, with muggles and purebloods being the extreme ends of the spectrum." He summarized succinctly like a good Ravenclaw would.

He placed the monocle back in its box. "If you try it on, you should see that I am a reddish purple. Magenta, maybe? My parents are both half-bloods, but their bloodlines must have more purebloods than muggle." He added informatively.

Atticus strolled through the dark alley like he owned the place as usual. It was time for business, hence his walking with a purpose. He'd been tasked with selling a dark artifact on behalf of a seller who didn't want to be seen or associated with the alley. It wasn't an uncommon request. Well to-do people couldn't risk the scandal were they to be seen. In fact, were they to be discovered with such an artifact it very might might make the papers. That was the type of client Atticus happily took on, as it meant a hefty cut from the sale.

He thought back to when he was last at Borgin & Burkes. It had been at least a year. It was odd fortune to have met one of the business' clerks at the Demon's Head a few weeks prior. Atticus wondered to himself whether he'd see Marcus at the shop today. Their last meeting had been friendly before it abruptly ended. Had the seed of business grown at all? Had Marcus asked around to confirm Atticus was who he said he was? Time would tell, assuming he saw the man at the shop today.

Rounding the corner near the shop, Atticus lightly patted the pocket which contained the artifact. It was an interesting machination, to be sure. He was curious to see how much he could fetch for it. He strided up to the dusty doors and walked through them to see Marcus at the front counter eating his lunch. Fortune had been with Atticus today.

"Marcus! I'd hoped we'd run into each other today." He said brightly as he stopped a few feet short of the counter. "I've got something that might interest you and yours." He added slyly with a wink.

“If you become a guy who sells things give us your business.”

Atticus raised his eyebrows at the man whose sudden hostility and exit puzzled him. He might've layed the bravado on too thick with this one, but this sort of thing usually worked with the Knockturn type. A lot more went into outward presentation and attitude when it came to the neighborhood. People generally liked confidence, and while most were suspicious and hesitant at best when it comes to new people, they usually came around.

Here was a man who may or may not have something to hide - it was clear that he enjoyed his privacy nonetheless. It wasn't unusual or concerning really - Atticus thought there was a good chance Marcus would ask around about him to see if he's legitimate or someone blowing smoke up his ass (or worse, a sneak). He downed the rest of his whisky and threw down the appropriate coinage for his drinks and a healthy tip. He yawned, stretched and stamped out his cigarette before looking around the room once more.

'Twas another pleasant night at the Demon's Head. Whether or not the seed for business would sprout mattered not, for he was warm, comfortable and drunk.

“I suppose I ought to get out more.”

Atticus chuckled and nodded his head. "Ask around, I've been here for awhile." He said confidently.  He hoped, perhaps naively, that he'd become a true fixture of the community in a few years time. The age thing hurt him more than he liked to admit.

“You workin’ for someone or you workin’ alone?”

Atticus raised an eyebrow in suspicion. This man could just be curious, or perhaps hesitant at his friendliness and the happenstance of their meeting. There was no real harm in asking the question but it did raise an alarm in Atticus' mind. He was also a bit offended at the idea that he was someone's minion, as it were. "I work alone, always have." He said simply, looking the man in the eye. "I have too many issues with authority to tolerate working under someone and I am too greedy to split coin with a partner." He said as he twisted his body to face Marcus.

"I'm just a guy who knows things, fixes things. The friendly neighborhood fixer." He said with a smirk as he lit another cigarette with the snap of his fingers, in his classic dramatic fashion.

"That bastard ruined my chances to go pro.”

Atticus spit out a bit of his whiskey laughing at the blunt characterization. He had never been one to praise the Potter boy like he was magic's savior. Sure, he defeated an admittedly dangerous wizard bent on genocide - which was all good and well - but he had his faults, he was human, and from what Atticus had read and heard, he'd had a lot of help along the way. As a student of history, Atticus would grant the W to Albus Dumbledore before anyone else. He smiled at his internal pedantry.

"Potter isn't the messiah, that's for sure." He said, still amused by Marcus' comment.

“You look a lil young to be doin’ all that. How old are you 18?”

This was a classic response Atticus got when telling people what he did. He couldn't blame them. He'd become well practiced at responding to it at any rate. "Nineteen. But don't let my age fool you - I've been out here since before I was a legal wizard, having been expelled at sixteen. A determined man can reach any damn mountain top he pleases with a bit of luck and a lot of effort." He said simply before taking another sip. He knew it to be true. He could frankly afford to live in Diagon Alley or the nicer parts of London, but he felt no need. His best contacts resided in the Alley and in the years he'd spent there, he had become quite fond of it. Sure, it was a grimy run down neighborhood but it had character. It was his only home since his parents disowned him following his expulsion. He loved it and it showed.

“Speakin’ of brooms, I have a classic Nimbus 2001 I’ve had since 92.”

Atticus had never been one to keep up with brooms, but even he knew this was an impressive model. Albeit it came out just before he was born, he knew of it to be a true and fine quality broom. He was impressed. "Very nice. You know, maybe my issue with brooms was never flying on a high end one. I'm sure you can just about dance in the air with a broom that nice." He mused, stroking his chin.

"I never heard of a Ravenclaw gettin’ expelled. In my day you lot were too busy with your books and the like."

He chuckled and shrugged. That wasn't the first time he'd heard that sentiment and it was unlikely it'd be the last either. "I was more hungry for knowledge for my own benefit, as opposed to being arbitrarily attached to marks and strict academic success. This is why I think I would've done well in Slytherin - the ambition and desire for power, y'know? Alas, my curious side won that fight. Were I re-sorted today though - I'd be donned in green." He said with another chuckle, wondering if being sorted into Slytherin would've altered his life path at all.

“What is it you said you do, again?”

Atticus took a healthy gulp of his newly filled whisky glass and set it back down. He folded his hands and thought of the best way to approach the conversation. This fellow seemed friendly enough, and he did work at Borgin & Burkes so he couldn't be completely on the up and up. Perhaps he had even heard of Atticus, tangentially, as someone in the neighborhood who knew something about something.

"People come to me when they need knowledge. You could say I collect and horde knowledge - the bit of Ravenclaw in me works well at this." He began nebulously. "I've been known to connect people as well. I am an information broker, and a bit of a fixer, for lack of a better term. Something's gone sideways? Owl Roark, he'll clean it up or find someone who can. Need some dirt? He's your guy too. I operate mostly in the alley but I've got contacts in just about every corner of Wizarding society." He said with a bit of a smirk. His job often called for unusual things or actions so it was a bit hard to describe. Initially he'd dealt strictly with information, but as his business grew, so did his offerings.

“What about you? Did you play quidditch?”

Atticus chuckled, thinking back to his formative years. He had never been truly comfortable on a broom. In fact, he often claimed nobody was ever comfortable on a broom and those who said they were are abject liars. This might've been a side effect from his pride and narcissistic tendencies. Either way, he had great respect for those who made maneuvering those wretched wooden sticks look easy.

"I never found myself home on a broom, personally. I might've liked beater though - something about whacking murderous sports balls at my enemies sounds rather pleasing." He jested, putting on a mock thinking face as he did. "I spent most of my time at school studying, smuggling or in the dueling club. I'm proud to say I had a rather impressive winning record through the years." He mused, twitching his hand as he did in the motion it would take to twirl a wand. "I must say I do have a competitive side. I was a Ravenclaw, but I often think I would've been just at home as a Slytherin." He added in thought before frowning for a moment.

"I was expelled in my sixth year for purveying contraband, unfortunately. I've been here ever since. Wasted potential and whatnot notwithstanding, I'm not displeased with my lot in life anymore." He mused. He took another long draw from his cigarette and tapped it out in a nearby ashtray. He glanced down at his near-empty glass and motioned the barkeep to refill it, which he did hastily before resuming his quiet stupor in the corner behind the bar.

“It’s….a family business.”

Atticus raised an eyebrow with curiosity. He'd only been to the shop a few times - it must be where he knew the face from. While he didn't have any particular qualms with most dark artifacts, he didn't outright seek them out either. It had come in handy for a few jobs though, so the idea served as a good back up when traditional means failed.

He looked at Marcus for a moment before deciding not to inquire further about the business. He filed it away for later.

"Sounds dull. No offense-" He started, raising his glass in surrender. "You just look like the type who might like a bit of more adventure. Did you play quidditch at Hogwarts? Assuming you went there." He added hastily before taking another sip of whisky. The best way to get the measure of a man is to learn where he came from. He silently wondered to himself which house this gentleman might've been in, had he matriculated at Hogwarts.

“Marcus Flint, I suppose it’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

Atticus smiled as the man gave him his name. He was glad to have broken through the obligatory Knockturn suspicion when meeting new people. The name sounded familiar, but he still couldn't place it. Flint looked too old to have gone to Hogwarts with him, though perhaps he'd heard the name around the alley.

"A pleasure indeed!" He said as he raised his glass to match Marcus' and took another drink. He reveled in the burn of the alcohol for a moment before taking another drag of tobacco. Introductions had been made, perhaps it was time to turn down the bravado a little. He surely didn't want to irritate his new acquaintance with this energy so late in the night.

"You know Marcus, your face looks familiar to me. I've only been living in the alley a few years but I'm confident enough to say I've clocked most of the people around here." He began, turning his head to the side a bit as he thought aloud. "Would it be too bold to ask what you do? I myself am a social organizer of sorts."

“What’s so pleasurable about it?”

Atticus chuckled as he took out a cigarette. He lit it with another snap of his fingers and looked back at the stranger. "Call me a simple man, but any night my belly's full of whisky is as pleasurable as can be." He said with a smirk as he nodded towards the stranger's bottle. "I'm sure you feel the same way." He added, eyeing the man's shot glass.

He turned back towards his glass and took another sip. He might've been making a mistake by bothering someone who had clearly come to get drunk, but he'd met some of his most useful contacts and friends this way. Most found his charm disarming at its surface, considering the mood and charisma of your average Knockturn citizen. People in this neighborhood were distrustful at best, which was understandable. Atticus aimed to be as approachable as he could be without laying it on too thick and setting off alarms. If the man remained somewhat standoffish, he'd leave him be.

Atticus had been sitting there for a few minutes before he heard someone pound on the bar across the room. He looked up and raised an eyebrow when a gruff voice he didn't recognize filled the room. He was arrogant enough to think he knew most of the denizens in the alley by name and voice, but of course that couldn't be true. He looked over and saw who he thought was a clerk at Borgin & Burkes. He couldn't be sure, he hadn't been to the shop too often but the man's face was familiar at any rate.

He smiled as the man was handed the bottle with the shot glass. This was a man who wanted to escape. Considering his current state of boredom and listlessness, Atticus had found himself a kindred spirit. As kindred a spirit in Knockturn Alley could be anyways.

He took his glass and tapped out the remains of his cigarette and walked over to the bar. He signals the barkeep for a top off as he pulled a stool out and took a seat. He then turned and leaned towards the stranger and introduced himself.

"Atticus Roark. Pleasure to meet you on this quiet evening."

It was late in the evening - or perhaps it was early in the morning - Atticus did not know nor care which, when he strolled through the familiar doors of the Demon's Head. Business had been somewhat slow as of late and he'd found himself unable to sleep that night. He was fortunate in that a night at the pub was essentially a typical workday for him.

The bar was surprisingly quiet for a weekend night. There was a trio of burly looking men in the corner grumbling quietly to each other as the barkeep leaned oh his bar with a sleepy expression on his face. Beyond that, the place was empty. Atticus loped over to the bar and asked for his usual - triple firewhisky.

After receiving his drink, he strolled to an empty corner and took a seat. He took a sip of his drink and set the glass onto the table as he pulled out a cigarette. He snapped his fingers and it lit. He took a deep draw and leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly as he exhaled through his nose.