After a relatively short but necessary meeting concerning some details about the Tournament, Rosier decided to take a stroll from the castle down to Hogsmeade. It's been a while since he walked through these alleys before nightfall, so he took his time, observing the village and the houses which looked just like they used to back in his school days. He briefly glanced over a nearby shop window and caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass. Impeccably dressed as always, in jet-black robes, with a heavy-looking shoulder bag and a shiny Law Enforcement pin, Rosier thought he looked somewhat out of place. He remembered the days when he wore his Ravenclaw robes and walked through the same streets. Then he would check his reflection in the window and grin to himself, thinking how handsome he looked. Now, he didn't want to look at the old man Rosier for more than two seconds.

Shrugging off those thoughts, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and sort of marched down the street with determination. His favorite place in Hogsmeade was always the Hog's Head inn because things never seemed to change there. It was a bit strange for someone like Rosier who always preferred lavish interiors and expensive furniture to adore such a dingy pub, but since the first time he entered the place it felt like home. Stepping inside, he was glad it was just as dark, dirty and unpleasant as it aways was. A hint of a smile appeared on his tired face.

Briefly greeting the barkeep and ordering a rather large glass of Chartreuse on the rocks (a grim drink for a grim place, he decided), Rosier found a seat in a dark corner. He took a folder and today's Prophet out of his bag and put a pair of reading glasses on. He rarely wore them in public as they made him look even older and grumpier, but...he'll live. As he opened the Prophet, the first thing that greeted him was his own face on page number three, along with a rather gossipy article. Frowning, Rosier thought the standards have dropped once again - he wasn't aware the Witch Weekly sort of tripe was welcome on page three of the Daily Prophet. Not bothering to read the whole thing, he flipped the page in annoyance and nervously searched his pockets for a cigarette.

There was nothing more frustrating than trying to shop in the United Kingdom.  Raizel had not really been holding out hope that the Hogsmeade divination shop[1] would have what she was looking for, because she couldn't say with certainty what she was looking for -- some sort of charm, or spell, or something that would ward off bad luck or block unpleasant visions or simply magically fix the whole situation.

Instead, she'd left feeling even more helpless and frustrated.  Yelling at the girl behind the counter had not made her feel any better, and she was determined to improve her mood before she met up with the others for their Halloween plans that evening.  Obviously, it was time for a drink.

She knew the Hogshead as the other pub in Hogsmeade.  Normally, she would have preferred the Three Broomsticks, but the ramshackle, darkened tavern seemed to better match her mood today.  Holding her head high, the blonde Cursebreaker marched inside, ignoring the strong smell of goat and the dust that kicked up from the dirty stone ground as she headed directly for the counter.

Raizel chose a stool next to a middle-aged wizard who looked relatively harmless, ignoring him as she took her seat.  The faded menu hanging over the bar looked nearly as old as the building itself; she could vaguely make out names and prices of beverages on it, but nothing that looked worthy of taking time to decipher.

"I want something to drink," she announced to the bartender, and then eyed the strange, greenish drink of the older wizard next to her.  It looked suspiciously herbal.  "What is that?" she asked him warily.

1.	Visited at the end of Please Speak Politely to Enraged Dragons

It seemed like page twenty-seven had something to say about him as well. Though it was beyond him why anyone needed a "Detailed analysis of of Cameron Rosier's wardrobe". The person who wrote the article also clearly had no idea...maybe he should invite him or her for a tour of his closet.

Again, he flipped the page nervously, wishing he would find something worth reading because otherwise he'll have to move on to the paperwork. But at least this was nice - the change of scenery. As much as he loved his house and as much as he started appreciating his office (his so-called sanctuary), it was nice to be back in Hogsmeade.

Rosier paid no attention when the inn's door opened loudly, but when a young-looking witch sat next to him, he looked behind him, as if to check if the place was truly so packed there were absolutely no other seats available. Of course, the place was almost empty but this was just his luck - he could only hope she wasn't an over-zealous Hogwarts student who will recognize him from her father's Prophet, ask him stupid questions (preferably about the Auror training) and then write an essay about the whole experience. He turned another page of the newspaper, this time more aggressively.

"What is that?"

"The bane of my existence," he answered without hesitation, not even lifting his gaze from the Prophet even though he kept reading the same sentence for the seventh time now without actually comprehending it. Maybe she wasn't a student if she ordered drinks here with such confidence...but then he remembered his school days and the bottle of firewhiskey he kept under his bed.

Whatever response she'd been expecting, that hadn't been it.  The Cursebreaker gave a sudden, surprised laugh, smiling in spite of herself as she gave the man hidden behind the newspaper a bemused look.  There was something oddly satisfying about meeting someone who was in an even worse mood than oneself.  Smirking, she snapped her fingers at the bartender.

"I want one of those," she said nicely, nodding to the odd looking drink.  A turn of phrase like that -- 'The bane of my existence' -- turned it into a challenge.  Raizel had never grown out of that sense of alcoholic daring from her IDF days, when it had been considered a measure of valor to down any liquor imaginable without making a face, no matter how vile.

Her order placed, she took a moment to study the bespectacled wizard sitting next to her.  He wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, which also made this a challenge.  Cocking an eyebrow, Raizel regarded him quizzically, openly looking him over from head to toe.  He was old -- probably in his late forties or early fifties -- and he looked tired, but he was well dressed.  Not a vagabond, then -- probably a pureblood, or maybe Ministry.  She didn't think he was a regular at Gringotts, but there was a cast to his face that made him look vaguely familiar -- she had likely seen him about somewhere recently.

"I didn't realize that the newspaper was so interesting," she put in with a pointed smirk.  He was near the back of it -- that was where they usually put the articles on things like music and fashion that she would never admit to guiltily devouring.  "Are you looking for ideas on how to spend your Halloween?"

Rosier didn't really expect the young witch to literally burst out laughing at his remark. He smirked at his own cleverness despite himself and then continued scanning the Prophet as she ordered herself the same gritty drink he was having. He almost felt morally obligated to warn her about it...almost. However, he merely shrugged, amused at the girl's obvious enthusiasm.

But then she started asking questions and Rosier knew he won't be able to have a calm afternoon after all. Oh well, the Prophet was pretty dull today anyway, so he finally lifted his gaze from its pages and looked at the witch properly for the first time since she'd entered the inn. He was still unable to tell if she was a student or not. "It's the exact opposite of interesting, I'm afraid. Why do you think I insist on poisoning myself today?" he gave his glass of Chartreuse a small glance, then raised his eyebrows at the young witch. He did warn her about it...well, he kind of did, in his own way.
 
Did he look like the sort who wanted to spend Halloween somewhere? He was still slightly hungover from Morgan's bash last night and had no intention of repeating anything of sorts any time soon. "Definitely not," he replied, grimacing a little. "Celebrated it last night, but I scarcely remember a thing. I'm sure it was...unforgettable though." He used that expression on purpose of course, smirking a bit. There was always too much alcohol at Morgan's parties and Rosier certainly wasn't getting any younger...oh well, he deserved it after such a hellish week at work.

"You're not a journalist, are you?" He checked hastily, albeit too late. He didn't really want to see an article about him having a drinking problem though. She didn't seem like the journalist type, but one can never know - they were getting sneakier and sneakier. Shrugging, he found his silver cigarette case, popped it open and then offered them to the girl.

"A journalist?" Raizel repeated amusedly, eyeing the proffered cigarette case.  She waved it off grandly with her left hand  "No," she said simply, favoring him with a smirk.  "If I was, then the newspaper would definitely be interesting."

There was a jerk of movement as the bartender unceremoniously dropped her own mug of greenish liquid on the counter in front of her.  Raizel eyed it, her mouth pressed firmly shut.  Now that she was considering it for her own consumption, the dingy color didn't seem as if it were entirely the fault of the liquid -- if the glass itself had been thoroughly cleaned at all in the past three months, she would have been surprised.

But now there was no going back.  Consuming the alcohol had turned into a challenge.  Raizel lifted the glass, sniffing at it, as she steeled herself to take a drink.

"There should be much better reasons to poison yourself than a newspaper, though, I think," she said nicely, flashing the wizard a sympathetic smile.  This was the way to do it; she'd get him talking and then force the first gulp of undoubtedly noxious liquid down.  "What does it say that would make you so miserable?  At least if it isn't interesting, then you know that no one else will read it."

Good, so she wasn't a journalist, for some reason Rosier believed her because she seemed a bit too shocked by his assumption. Well, it didn't matter actually - it wasn't like he was going to discuss some classified information with the witch or suddenly go mad, take his trousers off and start dancing around the dingy pub while singing 'Level Two - better than you' out of tune. He took one of his cigarettes and tucked it in the corner of his mouth as he watched the witch stare at her glass with something that could be defined as mild disgust.

He smiled despite himself as she said there had to be better reasons for poisoning ones self. Well, how about - his entire life? Alright, he was perhaps being a bit too dramatic - there were still some good things around, but the situation at work was so stressful they hardly mattered. Also, because of the situation at work Rosier felt guilty when he was doing something that actually made him happy. And then people wondered why he looked so grumpy and miserable all the time!

"Well--" he started, flipping the pages, looking for that god-awful piece of writing. "It says I own a pair of checkered trousers...and that I spent my Easter holidays in Puerto Rico."

There was a really terrible picture of him with a plastic crown on top of his head. He was going to murder Darian Morgan. The article next to it was titled 'Detailed analysis or Cameron Rosier's wardrobe'. "The problem is - I know someone is going to think this is interesting. And some might wonder what I'm doing in Puerto Rico while I should be locked in my office...You know, I really dislike where today's journalism is going. The Prophet used to be at least bearable." He remembered that was years ago and felt ancient once again - the Prophet started going downhill some twenty-odd years ago.

The blonde mage laughed, flashing her teeth in a smile as she regarded the wizard bemusedly.  He looked somewhat familiar, although that didn't help her right now.  He certainly didn't work at Gringotts, but maybe he was someone important at Hogwarts or at the Ministry.

"Yes, if they said that I owned checkered trousers, then I would be offended, too," she agreed, smiling at him.  "I hope that you don't have to stay locked in your office all of the time.  That would be even more boring than that newspaper."

She eyed the man thoughtfully as she lifted her glass again.  Subsequent sips were not making the putrid green liquid any easier to swallow; it was all Raizel could do to keep from coughing, to look as if she didn't mind the taste as she set the drink down again.

"I'm Raizel," she offered, extending her hand to the wizard.  "And who are you, that the Prophet has so much to say about you?  I promise I will only tell them true things about your trousers," she added, smiling broadly.  "I'd hate to be responsible for giving you another reason to stay locked away in your office."

All the casual banter could wait for a moment. Rosier was all for entertaining the girl with his witty anecdotes and melodramatic moping about terrible Prophet articles, but he turned serious as soon as she told him her name. Raizel was not a common name in Britain and certainly not (to Rosier's knowledge) very popular among their Wizarding community. But he kept on hearing that name over and over, every day - even a meeting with the Minister of Magic couldn't go without the mention of Raizel Cohen. Could this be just Rosier's usual luck? To randomly run into the infamous Cursebreaker? And just when he started thinking she was a figment of Trevelyan's imagination...

Rosier's face went from grumpy and indifferent to very serious and business-like in a second. "Raizel? Your name is Raizel? Raizel Cohen?" He placed the Prophet on the side, forgetting about it in an instant. He gave the young witch all of his attention now and took off his reading glasses, as if that would help him see her better.

"I'm Rosier," he said, extending a hand formally. "Cameron Rosier of Law Enforcement. You know, I think you and I have some mutual friends." He wasn't sure if he was thinking about the Aurors or about the goblins...well, probably both. But Rosier had tons of questions now and he struggled to decide what to ask first and what was appropriate to ask considering the circumstances. He knew they were far from a solution to the goblin problem, but getting more information would put him in a much better position.

For the past couple of weeks Rosier could only think of the butchered of corpses of Rippringham-Gomfrey and Dawlish, then the recent corpse in Knockturn Alley he discovered himself. These images kept him awake at night and not even the company of the lovely Dolly St. James could help make him forget for more than a couple of moments. He had a feeling he was sinking deeper and deeper, failing everyone, the people he was responsible to protect...the people he promised to protect.

He looked around the bar to see if anyone was listening or even looking in their direction. Then he lowered his voice slightly. "Is there anything that can be done about the goblins? The corpses are piling up and frankly, Level Two is slowly running out of ideas."

It only took an instant for the wizard's interest to show.  Raizel picked up on the change in his expression a beat after she'd finished speaking.  Suddenly, her own carefree, confident air vanished, and she drew back anxiously, her gaze fixed on his face.  When she'd been younger, Raizel had dreamed of the day when she could amble into a bar and have every man inside recognize her by reputation, but she'd learned long ago that reality wasn't nearly as devoid of consequences as she'd once imagined it to be.  Good things never came from people who knew her name.  Not in unexpected places, and not like this. 

And not with Cameron Rosier.  That was indeed a name she knew.  Raizel regarded the man sitting next to her intently, biting her lower lip.  Her drinking companion was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement here in England; that put him on par or above Adnan Musallam back in Israel.  Adon did not talk of his boss often -- they both said little about work, although the Auror certainly liked to gripe when she let him -- but she knew that he did not think much of his Department Head.  And what sort of man was Cameron Rosier?  The sort to arrest someone if it got him what he wanted?  To freely take advantage of his power?  Had this conversation already turned into some sort of trap?

Raizel hadn't stopped staring at the older wizard, but it took a moment for her to register that he'd offered her a handshake.  She blinked, and then, clenching her jaw, gingerly reached out and gripped his hand for the barest of instants.  Drawing her hand back quickly, she clenched it shut for a moment to feel the missing fingers, and then quickly picked up her drink.  The horrible green liquid burned her throat as she swallowed.  Coughing, she shook her head to clear her vision.

"It depends," she said roughly at last, feeling her way along each clipped, foreign word, "on what you want to do about them, I think."  She paused, tongue pressed against her teeth as if she were about to say something else, and then pressed her mouth shut.  Cameron Rosier was an unknown quantity; she did not know what to expect from this man who preferred wretched green alcohol and complained about journalists. 

"What corpses do you mean?" she asked in a low, intent voice.  Her eyes were locked on Rosier's, her expression guarded, but there was an anxious, frightened edge to her gaze.  She was sitting up straighter, the good fingers of her right hand wrapped tightly around her glass of chartreuse as she bit her lip again.  "The Arithmancer?"

Whichever reaction from the young witch he expected, it definitely wasn't fear. As soon as he introduced himself, Cohen stared at him as if she'd spotted a dementor. Her handshake was brief, weak and reluctant. Why was she terrified of him - or rather of his uniform? After years spent on Level Two he learned that usually only the ones who had something to hide behaved this way. So the wheels in Rosier's head started turning, thinking of how to turn this situation to his advantage. He eyed the two glasses filled with the foul green beverage and suppressed a smirk. Taking a sip, he looked back at the Cursebreaker with a plan on his mind.

"I want the blackmail to end. I want to stop the history from repeating itself." But people rarely asked Rosier what he wanted and when they did there were always know-it-alls like Dreogan Eleor waiting to contradict him and throw their worthless ideals in his face. Rosier lowered his voice, but he tried very hard not to sound angry or threatening in any way. Some of his co-workers accused him of sounding like an angry old dog a couple of times.

"You must know them better - do you think they will take this as far as an economic collapse? Will I be as poor as a house elf by Monday? Should we all start worrying?" He doubted it though - goblins liked empty threats, but if the Minister was concerned, it was Rosier duty to be concerned as well.

"And the collector," he answered her question about the corpses, a nasty image of the late Wizengamot member's butchered body appearing in his mind again. Rosier knew she was fully aware what he was talking about, so why this hesitation then? Was he truly such a terrifying sight? And to think she was laughing at his remarks less than a minute ago. "Even Eleor Sr. ...but you know about all this." He looked at her intently, his steely eyes fixed right on hers. "But you don't know about the most recent one - a woman, a young pretty thing just like yourself, rotting away in an abandoned shop in Knockturn Alley. I wonder, how many will die for this...cause?" Finally breaking eye contact with Cohen, he looked over the bar and indicated at their glasses to the old barkeep.

"Another round, Ab!" he barked.

Each example that the old wizard cited felt like a knife jabbing into her gut.  Especially the last, too familiar name -- the broken look on Adon's face when they'd finally realized the identity of the skeleton was seared into her memory.  Raizel shrank on her bar stool, her eyes flitting away from Rosier's gaze, intent on fixing anywhere but on the man sitting next to her.  Yes, she knew all this.  And as much as the goblins terrified her -- as much as she didn't want anything to do with this whole awful situation -- she held on tightly to her empty glass, as if its mere presence was grounding.

She would have liked nothing more than to end the conversation where it was.  No matter who he was, this Rosier couldn't force her to cooperate.  Adon wouldn't, either -- the Auror might be deeply disappointed, but he wouldn't push her.  And for all their merciless insistence on forcing her to stay and slave away in the main office in London, surely this would be the one trump card that could convince the goblins to let her go back to the careless freedom of her old life.

Raizel stayed still, her shoulders hunched as she stared down at the bar counter, still biting her lip.  The wizard's last words seemed to sink in through her contemplation.  A young woman -- maybe not much older than her, dead and abandoned and forgotten in some shop.  Was that what would happen to her, if she tried to whisk herself out of sight?  Was there even any point in trying to prevent it?

She looked up suddenly as Rosier called for another round.  Stubbornly, she set her jaw.  She was not going to simply turn up dead somewhere -- not like that, not for no reason.  Wasn't that what she already taken steps to prevent?  Even an awful death, like the sort that Dreogan saw in his visions, was preferable to that -- at least dying in a vision gave one's end purpose.

"I don't know how many will die," she informed Rosier.  She lifted her chin as she looked back at him, finally meeting the older wizard's gaze.  "But we can't talk about it here.  Somewhere else.  Later."  Where Gringotts' eyes couldn't pry.  Where, for better or for worse, she wouldn't feel quite so jumpy.

For now, Cameron Rosier could buy her another awful green drink, and she would finish it, Raizel thought determinedly.  Later, they would talk.

Later.

End.