By the time she darkened Slug & Jiggers’ doorstep, Bai was ready to turn in.

What had been a typical morning, had begun as much… which was to say, early. Dreadfully, before-the-sun-rose early. When one took it upon herself to harry Ferreole LeBeau, one either got a head start or didn’t bother at all; the man was, to put it simply, insane. Insane. She respected him, to be sure (for she wouldn’t have worked for him if she hadn’t otherwise)—loved him, even, for she wouldn’t have stayed if she didn’t, either—but there was no denying the one fact that explained every inexplicable action he did, who seemed to follow a personal schedule no one else had:

The man was a lunatic. And truth to be told, it grew… tiresome, after a while. Particularly when one added an obtuse athletics director and a headstrong pupil to the daily grind. While one was infinitely preferable to the other, all three instilled a strong desire in her to shake her head and just… sit down (although it was the other two who made her come up with insidious threats she would never, ever utter).

(Though naturally, of course, no one ever seemed to get that impression from her. It was a point of pride for her, and she was quite proud of it, thank you.)

And so she stood there within the apothecary, inspecting the bottles and jars on display as exhaustion rested on her shoulders like a cloak—not as obviously as it would for some, perhaps, but the signs were there: a sleek knot of hair that began drooping gently down her neck; a strand of hair that brushed against her cheek; a distinct glaze to her eyes that hinted at more than ennui; and a note of lethargy to movements that were normally swift. Compared to her usual perfection, she felt… lacking. Drab. Perhaps most galling was that she was tired enough to feel the difference keenly, yet couldn’t be bothered to care… Much.

It was utterly deplorable. Thank goodness she only had this errand left to do. Then, then she could retreat to her brother’s flat and not come out until Sunday…

“Professor Yang,” she finally broke the silence, turning on the clerk behind her with a quick turn of her heel. Her coat—a compliment of leather that dipped modestly at her chest and was slit intriguingly above her knee—fluttered about her ankles, which were wrapped to her knees in fashioned dragonhide leather. (To her chagrin they bore new acid burns, though she knew it would take a sharp eye to notice.) “I put in an order of five ounces of Ptolemy, two pounds of dragon’s blood, half a pound of re’em blood…”

In cool, unaffected tones she lined out the entirety of her order, a full sixteen items that would nearly replenish her personal stores to complete capacity. She had forwarded it a fortnight ago, when she’d pulled out a vial and found it empty, and she would consider it a personal favor, thank you, if he would so kind as to add a pound or two of horned slugs…?

As soon as the front door chimed again, brows snapped together in annoyance as the clerk—so easily distracted was he—clucked placatingly at her before swooping in on the newcomer behind her. Loudly welcoming with cries of Sir!’s and Welcome back’s, he left her dropping the hand she’d been using to gesture at the slime-filled tank at her side, her back suddenly ramrod stiff at the perceived slight.

How rude. Seething with irritation that was more than a little inspired by exhaustion and impatience, she kept her back to the pair of them, pretending to survey the merchandise farther along the shelves as she put the slugs between the men and herself. Her torpor hadn’t mattered much when it was just her and the shopkeeper; now it did, and only added a layer of discomfort to her anger.

The terrarium—a small old thing of glass, set high atop a spindly wooden table—wobbled precariously as she stalked past. Fuming quietly, she waited for the clerk to remember he had been seeing to her first.

   

"I'm at the... top of the world.... down on creation...."[1]

Dietrich licked his lips as he half-sang and half-whistled down Diagon. It was just one of those days, man. The rest've the country was down with the winter blues but London still had that swing to its step, a li'l heat in the air and a breeze that cut 'round the crowds like it were racing 'em. Pretty damn sweet weather.

'Least it was until the sun started setting. The towering wizard pulled his coat in closer as cold winds shot through the alley, and he squinted up at the darkening skyline with a rueful look. Well... he guessed even the perfect days had to come to a fuckin' end. It weren't gonna ruin his mood or nothin but getting back to the warmly lit parlour sure sounded like a good idea right now. After a few chores.

Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, still open for the good wizardin' folk who needed a quick batwing or two before going home for their dinners. The door chime made a delicate sound as Dietrich pushed it open, heaving himself into the well-lit shop with a hand in his pocket and a smile on his face.

Aaaaah yes. The smell of freshly picked slugs and newt livers. Gotta love it.

"Hey there," he nodded at the fella who usually manned the counter. The short wizard was with him in a heartbeat, leaving behind another customer at the front. Dietrich had been down in the mornin' to make an order for pick-up, so it weren't like he was intent on staying too long. "Ya got me my stuff ready yet? I ain't gonna need the feathers, 'pparently found myself a whole trunk of that shit at the back of the parlour..." Along with a crapload of other goods he thought he'd run out of.

The clerk nodded quickly, obligingly, almost like a bird- gesturing for him to wait further inside while he went to fetch the order. Dietrich began taking off his coat as he followed distractedly: eyes moving across the shelves instead of watching where he was going. He wasn't the exactly the most agile of guys; especially in shops like this, covered corner-to-corner with tanks and jars and bowls, it was hard to move 'round.

Which was why he should've known better than to try in the first place. Dietrich struggled pulling his arm out of his sleeve and stepped back with a grunt, jerking an arm out so suddenly that it struck against a glass terrarium that had been balancing unsurely behind the other customer (a witch, he now saw). Oh fuck, he thought as soon as it tipped over-- the thing was full of slugs. And not even the nice kind.

1.	"Top of the World" by the Carpenters.

Luckily, she had been too far away to be hit by the tank itself; without her in its way, the thing smashed noisily against the floor. Unluckily, however, the professor had been just close enough to be within the contents’ reach.

She heard them—felt them—land on her with wet, squelching splats.

Mid-perusal, Bai froze.

To be fair to the oaf on whom all fault lay, her current attire was not… apothecary-friendly to begin with. Chic, exquisite, and oh so very expensive, it had been perfect for the underground auction she had just attended a few hours before; rather than scream wealth, it quietly implied it—as well as a healthy association with power. Combined with a sleek smile, it had led to invitations and, more importantly, knowledge that some items did exist. Not to mention the ease of movement it allowed would serve her well in a pinch, and had…

But of all the scenarios she could have imagined, it hadn’t been this!

The last of the glass shards sliding across the floor, Bai slowly turned around, dimly aware of a far-off-sounding shriek as flinty eyes rose from floorboard—to boot—to knee, and chest, and-

…oh

-her expression swiftly schooled itself (into one of controlled fury) once again, the emotion thick and crackling in the air. This… cretin had spilled slugs on her. Slugs! On her! It was an incident that hadn’t happened since, since eleventh grade, when someone had thought it amusing to sic one of the creatures on her then-plaited hair, and the memory had her fingers curling tightly around her wand. She had hexed the buffoon then, too-

But no; juvenile she was not. Instead, without tearing her gaze from his (as well as ignoring anything that was said), Bai calmly slipped off her coat… and sharply gave it a shake, the movement forceful enough to shake them all off onto the floor—or on him, if they so landed.

All but one, that is, and the errant mollusk’s location—on the coat’s posterior—had almond-shaped eyes slanting dangerously. Then she shot Dietrich a brittle smile, before whirling onto the apothecary’s owner with a look that could have chilled blood. “As I was saying,” she hissed breathily into the wizard’s ear, the coat draped over her arm, “that would be two pounds of horned slugs on top of my order if you please. I do hate repeating myself.”

She then shot a glance to her side, not quite looking over her shoulder, although there was no mistaking whom her next words would be directed at. “You may put it under his name,” the professor continued, as she languidly turned to face him. Meanwhile, that last slug slid down to the hem, clinging to it briefly before wetly hitting the floor. Scattered between the two of them, its brethren writhed painfully. “I’m sure that’s the least you can do, yes, mister…?”

The second smile she gave him was expectant, full-lipped and sweet—a sharp contrast to the imperious set of those bare shoulders.

   

Why'd he have to always go and ruin the real pretty ones?

Dietrich stared at the witch who'd turned around to shake off her coat- his mouth hung agape for a minute but he snapped it shut quickly, like a bear trap. Gods. Here was a woman who could probably kill with a cold shoulder. And what a shoulder. The wizard's blue gaze dropped from the back of her neck as she turned away, and it travelled down to the curves that slipped alongside the small of her back- then lower, to the slope of an ass that a pretty damned lucky slug had landed on earlier.

Oh but if he were that slug.... Dietrich lingered briefly on the thought, teeth showing in an ineluctably carnal grin.

“You may put it under his name,” he heard the pointed statement and reminded himself that it probably wasn't a good idea t'be caught staring at a gal's behind when he'd gone and done her the excellent disservice of messing up a whole order of critters. The final slug dropped to the floor with a splat. “I’m sure that’s the least you can do, yes, mister…?”

Holding his own coat in one hand, Dietrich stepped forward- killing some of the Apothecary's stock with a sickening squish as he did so. "Eisenberg, Dietrich...." he drew up next to her, looking down at the dark-haired witch with an interested glimmer in his eye.  Not sparing the clerk a glance, the artist added: "Go ahead and add it t'the parlour's tab. What the little lady demands, she gets."

A reflexive, cocky wink. "Ain't that right?" Dressed like that, she probably got a hell lot more than just what she demanded. It was an effort, tryin' to decide if he wanted to keep starin' at her face or take in the rest of that tight li'l parcel.

From the pair the clerk drew back reluctantly, shooting them both an apprehensive look (-“As you say, sir…”) and the mess a cringing one as he did. In one fell swoop he had lost nearly half his entire stock of the creatures, and the thought of another such incident happening in his absence clearly distressed him. But unfortunately for him, Bai paid the man little to no mind, either; at that moment—despite herself—the annoyed magizoologist found her attention rather… snagged.

At Dietrich’s easy concession (as well as the intent, friendly look that followed), her triumphant smile faded, giving way to narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Pointedly, dark eyes glanced at his feet before meeting blue ones again. “Clearly,” she agreed, gaze cool as she raised her chin a little higher. That glimmer in his eye one she recognized well enough, had a slow, climbing heat licking delicately at her toes and threatening to creep upwards; those same dark eyes narrowing even further, she ignored it. Never mind excellent bone structure, nor the relaxed, self-confident posture, nor the gleam in his eye that did not speak volumes, but suggested—‘little lady’ indeed. He’d gotten slugs on her (her mind still reeled in shock over this); she was not about to forget that.

But a word—something he’d mentioned—stuck out to her, and necessity soon had her looking to him in askance. “Parlour?” she repeated, letting her gaze sweeping over him again with new consideration. With that long-sleeved sweater in the way, it was impossible to identify any tattoos he might possibly have—a helpful factor in determining whether he meant one for tattoos or… icecream.

   

The woman's unimpressed looks did little to hinder Dietrich as he smiled back at those pursed lips.

Icy on the outside, f'sure, but he was pretty confident that it was all nothing but a cold and tightly coiled wire around something much... warmer. He could see it in her eyes. Or hips- didn't matter which, they both could've done with s'more staring. 'Course it was supremely wiser to keep his attention to the latter.

"Yeah, the Inkwell." Dietrich nodded his head without once glancing away from her face. "The one just as ya turn into Knockturn, y'know?" he indicated in the general direction of Diagon's sinister, offshoot of a sister. "Ain't much to look at but it's mine and that's solid." A less conceited smile now- though his teeth still showed, like the fangs of a tentative wolf.

The apothecary clerk was somewhere off in the background preparing their orders; he didn't make much noise but the sounds of glass jars and squishy stock reminded Dietrich that he hadn't really apologized to the lady (or the slugs), which was kinda inexcusable. Even for him.

"Listen here," he started a li'l sheepishly, hands in pockets. "Sorry 'bout yer coat and all. I'm glad I could make it up t'you by getting yer order but if you ever want a good needlin', yer welcome to it at my parlor. We're pretty good at marks, Miss... ah..." the wizard trailed off, raising his eyebrows curiously. "Don't think I caught yer name."

“Bai Li Yang,” she answered, visibly relaxing now that he had apologized. For a moment, it had seemed as though even that had eluded him; his ogling (which she had noticed, thank you) had done little to assure her otherwise. True, said apology did nothing to rid her coat of slime, but there was something to be said for sincerity, after all.


And his smile was rather nice…


Briefly, the witch paused, leveling the man a guarded stare. After a moment’s thought, “Professor Yang,” was added, with quiet emphasis on the prefix. Although she was American, even casual use of her surname did not sit well with her. That much—particularly regarding the likes of him—seemed uncomfortably… intimate. “Of the Salem delegation, for the Tournament,” she continued, brushing a loose strand of hair off her shoulder. “I teach general Magizoology.”

Her free hand falling to her side again, the second look Bai gave him was longer still. Despite whatever he may have assumed, this was not, in fact, her first visit to Diagon Alley—or Wizarding London, for that matter. But during those trips, certain… matters had not been forefront among her priorities; as a result, the Inkwell—though ringing a bell—remained only a name, one that had been remembered for future reference but naught else. As she’d traversed between the two alleys, she had passed by the place numerous times without giving it more than a cursory glance.

The next time she was in the area, however… Suffice to say, it would be different.

The clerk emerged then, arms full of meticulously wrapped packages, which he then stacked neatly atop the counter, to be placed into a Bottomless container. But despite his care, some of them clink’d warningly; momentarily distracted, Bai spared him a glance. “I cannot fathom how you could think I would,” she murmured, when she looked in Dietrich’s way again. And when she did, something almost… teasing tugged at her lips. “But as it so happens, I may take you up on that offer.”

Taking a step closer—and mindful of the floor—Bai tilted her head back further, to look him better in the eye rather than at his broad chest. “I require maintenance.”

In that increase of proximity, all the man would see would be an expanse of clear, unmarked skin. Knowing this, her lips curved slightly. “It may not look it, but it is extensive.” Almost absentmindedly, fingertips trailed from the dip of her jaw… and then down the slope of her shoulder. “For function, as well as tradition. The artist-” damn the tiny, shriveled man, “-was quite firm on that, so I conceal it for work.”

The last part—‘and appearances’—went unsaid.

“Normally, I would go to him. But seeing how that is quite out of the question now…”

The sudden purr in her voice rolled low and taunting. “Just how confident of your hands are you, herr Eisenberg?”

   

What, oh what was he gonna do with this sexy li'l thing?

Dietrich met her gaze at every point, tryin' not to stray to the decidedly more provocative areas he was interested in... examining. It wasn't easy but it got him a name t'put to the face and he grinned at the added suffix. Well whaddaya know. A teacher. He'd let her teach him a few things, not that he already didn't know a thing or two 'bout wild animals.

Suppressing the impulse to crack the jokes in his head, the wizard forced out some social conventions b'fore his eyes got the best of him.

"A pleasure t'meet ya then, Professor..." he winked impulsively. "Hope yer enjoyin' yer time here 'cross the pond."

The witch was suddenly a step closer and this time Dietrich found himself pulling his stare away from that cold, bare shoulder- the way it slipped down and around her elegant neck, her evocative collarbones. Delicate, almost. “I require maintenance.” she stated and he looked her in the eye, toothy grin broadening. I bet ya do, he thought.

Her gestures, softly tracking the design of a mark he could not see, came across as sensual. Restrained but sensual. The woman was dripping with it and with a sense of unapproachability that all the more made him wanna take a needle to her. Or something more pleasurable. Dietrich blinked- Gods, he needed to get his head outta the gutter. And he was just about to wrench it out when she asked, teasingly.  “Just how confident of your hands are you, herr Eisenberg?”

"Very," he replied without skipping a beat, mind planted firmly back into aforementioned gutter. "Best on this end of London, Professor, and not just with my hands." The clerk in the background, piled packages in his arms, was beginning to look a li'l flustered.

"You might've heard of me, in fact. Die Spinne. Used to work the circuit in Manhattan. Pretty sure I could help with yer... ah, predicament." A quick glance at her chest, almost too quick t'be a leer. Dietrich thought of his parlor on Knockturn- part of him lingering on the enjoyable idea of inking Miss Yang, the other already considering the complications of concealed tattoos. "Would love to have ya on m'table. You'd be in reliable hands. Promise."

Those eyes dark, intent, and ever so watchful, noted every movement he made without glancing away. When Bai smiled, it was a subtle lift to her lips; she was listening, but understanding so much more. That promise made hung between them like a tangible, pulsating heat… or a curtain to be pushed aside, an invitation laid bare.

The name he offered—Die Spinne—was one she had heard of before, one that struck her as familiar more than The Inkwell had. It was easy to recall a moment spent in another’s apartment, where smoke filled the air and an arm was bared proudly; it was the first time she had uttered the name, albeit with skepticism, and examples—more of them—had followed, accompanied by praises that weren’t all directed at an artist’s skill.

Her own part in the conversation hadn’t lasted long, as her interest had lain elsewhere at the time (-a rather detailed diagram of a naga, if one must know), but she distinctly remembered sniffing when they’d happily begun discussing looks (if that ghostly spike of disdain had been anything to go by). She had left the room then, books in hand, before someone could wax poetic on the virtues of dexterity. And now it seemed that she would soon see this for herself…

In a professional capacity, of course.

“That is a comfort,” Bai murmured, flicking that languid, dark-eyed gaze over him from head to toe. As she did, something hot and sultry tugged at the corner of her lips; being up close as she was, the woman couldn’t help but notice how tall he was, or how his hands looked as though they’d be more comfortable curling into fists… or curled around something else entirely. It was certainly something to think about, at any rate, and there was enough speculation that there was no mistaking it in her eyes.

But she tugged them back up again, almost as slowly, as lazily, as one would saunter their fingers up another’s chest to the brunt of their shoulder. “We shall see, then, if you can keep it,” she hummed, a smirk lurking under those lashes. The leather coat shifted slightly, as the arm beneath it tucked more firmly under the curve of her chest. “Perhaps Friday—at seven, preferably, if you are available.”

   

It was kinda hard to think of anyone at that moment who could've been more of a real woman than Bai Li Yang.

The lady was all subtlety and dares, standing right infront of him but ridiculously out of reach. There was a warning bell going off at the back of Dietrich's head the way a fire alarm does: over and over, telling him to back the hell away before he found himself in a position to fulfil the suggestive possibilities underlying their exchange. He'd never heard it go off so bad- 'cept it was all music to his ears now.

"A man of my word, Professor..." his teeth were showing, unashamedly carnal. "We keep our promises, one way or another." Any sliver of modesty in his soul was hidden by a blatant and playful impulse to simply want her. He didn't even have to touch Bai Li, didn't have to trace the invisible ink of her slender neck or map it down to the small of her back with teasing fingertips. None of that 'cause he was appeased by the desire alone.

It took her giving him an appointment date to snap outta his imaginings.

"Hell, even if I weren't available." Dietrich stepped aside, regretfully widening the gap between their bodies. Didn't wanna go blocking the woman after he'd gone and gotten slugs all over that gorgeous figure. "Friday at seven."

At his admission - and confirmation - full lips curved like a bow, genuine pleasure turning up the corners until they were soft divots in her cheeks. “Excellent,” Bai murmured, smiling, as she leisurely moved past him. Standing nervously at the counter—and looking more than a little pink-cheeked—the clerk held her order, eyeing her slighter frame with apprehension.

Calmly, she ignored it. Fingers fanning - then curling - under the bottom-most package, Bai took the load off the man’s hands and turned around, the packages now firmly within her care. The smile still graced her features when she did.

She made her way to the door in slow, graceful strides, hips rolling slightly under the hug of her dress, until she stood outside, that trim figure perched at the store’s doorstep. Flickering lamplight turned her gaze hooded as she looked back at the tattoo artist, her eyes seemingly, impossibly black. “Bis Freitag then, herr Eisenberg,” she purred, and with a sharp, telltale crack! she was gone.