"Cinaed Tawse."

Theodora Kingstreet's voice was cold and her nose wrinkled.  The young, hairy wizard was easy to identify, especially considering the context.  And as a former prosecuting lawyer, even in Azkaban, Theodora made it a point to commit criminal dossiers to memory. 

"Assault, sedition and treason. 1998 until 2002.  Paroled."

She inspected her well-groomed cuticles, and patted down her charcoal gray robes, to assure herself that none of the other wizard's wild grooming had affected her own tidiness.  Beards. Goodness, how flashy.

The two former wards of Azkaban prison were in the cold, spartan waiting area of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  Presumably, Tawse was there for the same reason as Theodora - a weekly check-in with their parole wizard.  They were alone, for the moment.  Theodora did not explicitly remember very much other about the young wizard.  Just that he had been among the very youngest of Azkaban's sorry prisoners.  And of course, they'd all had beards then, so he would not have stood out. 

She continued to make light conversation.

"I am unsure as to how these meetings will continue - the Auror in charge of my parole was decapitated recently.  Very messy business."

She did not turn her head to talk to him.  Instead, her light blue eyes occupied the very left corners of her eye sockets to inspect him.  She was not yet comfortable facing the beard face on, even with her spectacles to shield her.

This was not how it was supposed to go.  But, he'd jumped the gun with his string of fire whiskey shots.  Normally, he had just enough to numb his mind slightly and make the meeting with the top hag at least mildly amusing.  A light buzz was almost necessary to get through these meetings. 

But, a combination of downing the drinks too early and a delay in his meeting meant that the shots were wearing away, leaving a throbbing headache behind his temples.  As if the hag's voice couldn't give him enough of a headache without a hangover. 

He'd been staring out the window blankly, simmering in frustration.  The windows were depicting a cloudy day outside, even though they were, apparently, far beneath the ground.  As a student, Cináed had never given that fact a second thought but since his first visit with his supervisor his first week after his release, he'd become keenly aware that the windows offered no means of escape. 

In the event the need arose. 

He squinted his eyes when he heard his name, only half-processing the voice through the throbs of the headache.  Reflexively, he pushed himself to his feet, following the well-known path to the door to the meeting room but almost immediately stopped.  The door was still closed.  No one was in the doorway summoning him inside.

He blinked and glanced around the room, his gaze finally falling on the woman seated near him.  Apparently, she'd been the source of the voice.  He slid his hand over his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose before passing his fingers purposelessly through his hair. 

"They finally gave you the boot?" he asked, recognizing the woman readily.  Of course, he knew the answer to that - she was sitting there, wasn't she?  But, under the haze of old firewhiskey, even the mos obvious question seemed vague.  She looked a little worse for the wear from the extra years in Azkaban but was easily recognizable.  The lack of facial hair meant women, generally, changed less then men in the place.  He slumped back down in his chair, rubbing his nose. 

Her conversational comment broke through the building hangover stupor and  Cináed looked up at her, curiously.  "Decapitated?"  He wanted to ask more but knew better, given their setting.  "Lucky you; after my sup's* promotion to head of the department, she decided to hold on to my case.  I wouldn't mind ..."  His voice trailed off as an official looking wizard passed by.

"Did they stick you in a bridge house?" he asked, scratching his forehead.  "I hear the one near King's Cross has the best food.  You wouldn't have any ... anything on you, would you?"  She looked much more ... square ... then he remembered from Azkaban; she appeared to be an unlikely suspect to walk around with a flask of whiskey on her person.  In fact, the official looking wizard seemed a more likely suspect.

* supervisor

Goodness. His manners were rather unwashed, weren't they?  She wrinkled her nose again, as if his request for a hand-out had its own odor.  Was she really considering soliciting this wizard in a business proposition?  She chanced another eyes-only glance at him and pursed her lips. Beggars could not be choosers; thus Theodora must choose to associate with this... beggar.

She put on a pert, insincere smile that did not reach her eyes and turned to Tawse.

"I have indeed been lodging in one of the Ministry's dismal cubicles, in Greenwich.  They are most unpleasant and so I have decided to shrug off those ignoble trappings for accommodations more to my taste."

She paused and inclined her head in order that she might gaze at him over her glasses. 

"And my taste includes privacy and autonomy as its prime features.  And thus I approach you, Mr. Tawse."

Her boldness might be considered astonishing.  She was not, after all, at the Ministry to meet with the Aurors.  No, she'd had her final parole check-in a week ago and it had been punctuated with the full stop of Timmins's head falling onto the grass of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.  She was quite though with the trivial peasants' play of cowing to the Ministry of Magic's demands.  She was in the Ministry of Magic this morning for the express purpose of making Cinaed Tawse's formal acquaintance.

"I am going underground and I would like to let two rooms at the Black Chimera under an assumed name." 

She didn't seem to be making that big of an effort to hide her impression of him.  Even in his slightly bedraggled - ok, rather bedraggled - state, he could see the traces of disapproval.  She could have just as well taken a thick-nibbed quill and written it across her face. 

Granted, he probably didn't look his best - whatever his best entailed.  There may have been a time, back in Hogwarts, when Cináed had given his appearance more than a fleeting thought but the years in Azkaban changed that.  General respectability had hardly been the impression he'd been trying to make since his release.  And, he cared even less during meetings with his sup. 

She spoke to him again.  At least, from what he could tell, she was speaking to him - he'd be damned if he could understand half of what she was saying.  Shrug off those ignorable trappings...  His head drooped forward and he rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. 

"You're wanting..." he started, turning his head to eye her, his mind trying to piece together her riddles through the growing throb.  Finally, her last statement summed it up in words that, even in his current state, was understandable. 

"Two rooms?" he asked, arching his eyebrows curiously.  Unless, in the midst of all the convoluted sentences he'd missed something, she, alone, was seeking accommodations.  Having missed something, however, was a distinct possibility.  He dropped his voice to a roughened whisper.  "I can arrange that.  What can you pay?" 

Theodora sighed and regarded the young Tawse with a stare that seemed to say, Pay? Are you new? I'm a villain beginning to orchestrate my return to high crime.  Gold will not be tricky to come by.  But instead, she adjusted her classes and explained.

"You will have all the gold you've ever dreamed of on the first of every month," she said in rare hyperbole, meaning, of course, money was not an issue.  "The exponent will depend on how adept you are at assuring the most clandestine privacy."

When Theodora said 'privacy' she said it with the short i. Because she so very prim.

"I will likely have several warrants out for my arrest by tomorrow afternoon - I shall call upon you then at the Black Chimera with first month's rent.  I hope this will be convenient.  I assume you have some some conditions to my keeping house on your premises. I will entertain them now.  Quickly, our time is short."

She wagged a hand in his face to draw out his response more quickly.   She knew the window for this conversation would be very short and she needed to be sure she was seen with him only in the exact environments she could be expected to be, least too much attention be drawn to their association.

"Quickly, now."

Cináed's usual clientele was an amusing but specific sort.  With the old Death Eaters as scattered and flung to the winds as they were, those that had made it to his little hole in the wall pub were the sorry and confused souls that contented themselves with watching shabby old bones fight each other. 

Cináed was used to the question 'how much can you pay' being a legitimate one. 

He couldn't help the surprise and slight grin that registered on his face.  "That's not necessarily much," Cináed admitted quietly, obviously more aware of the conversation than he had been moments before.  Large amounts of gold hadn't really been a regular dream of his.  It'd been years since he'd set his expectations that high.  Despite his remark, there was an obvious look of interest on his face.  The offer had sobered him up some - at least temporarily.

"We are a public pub.  Generally public; few come in that I'm not familiar with.  But the rooms are, of course, only for guests.  And, I can, of course, be more accommodating to guests that actually pay." 

At first, Cináed shook his head; if she was willing to dish out as much as she was letting on, he was willing to forgo conditions.  But, of course, there were limitations.  "Just don't expect too much from my ... regular drinkers.  We aren't the tidiest bunch."  He licked his lip.  "And, don't go snooping.  Or waggling your tongue about anything inside.  Show the boys there the same discretion you want."

Theodora stood up quickly, straight as an arrow and blinked down at Tawse.  She nodded sharply and adjusted her waistcoat and overrobes.  She began putting on her gloves as she spoke, a bit faster and in a lower volume now.

"Fine.  I am a model tennant.  I would under normal circumstances provide you with references and a credit evaluation from Gringotts, but my political status prevents such joyful activities.  Perhaps in lighter times we can enjoy that paperwork.  But, well..." she shrugged, "what with the recent decapitations and me shirking this mantle of oppression this evening... certain sacrifices must be made."

The mad woman was downright cheerful! The rest of today would be spent making ready to disappear.  She paused then, knowing she had a few seconds more before an Auror would come round the waiting area to collect Tawse.  She regarded her newest associate with a quiet sort of regret, like a dog owner might regard their new puppy, dripping with mud on the clean hardwood.   He may be a scruffy, politically chaotic, violent upstart landlord.

But he was now her landlord.

That, and without a wand, she could easily dispatch him if she felt him to be ineffective or leaky.

She smiled.

"Glad to have made your acquaintence, Cinaed Tawse."  She extended a gloved hand.

With a dubious grin, Cináed watched the woman stand and adjust her trappings.  He was half tempted to stop Kingstreet and try to clarify.  Undoubtedly, all this talk about credit evaluations and references made him wonder if she, really, understood the nature of the 'accommodations' he was offering.  He considered himself lucky when his usual customers were able to pay anything. 

"Sacrifices.  Huh," was all he said.  Maybe, though, with that new house elf, standards pretending to be close to her expectations might be achievable.  Unlikely, but stranger things had happened. 

"I'll be sure to get some Bertie Botts for the pillows."  Cináed didn't readily recognize the expression on the woman's face but there was little time to contemplate it.  Footsteps sounded beyond the locked door at the end of the room, heralding the pending arrival of the young auror that would escort him to his meeting. 

The footsteps beyond the door brought the headache back to the front of his mind.  He took the extended hand and gave it a weak shake before pushing himself to his feet.  "Until next time, Kingstreet."  Pulling his hood up over his head, his hair still spilling out over the lapels, he walked towards the interior door.