"One more flight.... Just one more...." Jack's voice echoed down six flights of stairs, followed closely by a loud thud and a murmur of "Nevermind then... Let's just take a break then, yeah?"

Tossing himself onto the only piece of furniture he had, which was an old futon sitting cockeyed on the landing between the 6th and 7th floors, Jack rubbed his aching fingers and sighed happily. Despite the stares and murmurs of 'squib' from other alley denizens, he felt rather pleased about schlepping his meager belongings to his new home like a mere muggle. Toss in his best mate along for the ride and a few cold beers, and Jack could ignore the screams of agony from his muscles, and all those hateful, hateful words.

"Beer, Rog?" Jack dug in his bag, which was actually an unstuffed punching bag, and pulled out a couple of beers. They weren't cold and Jack still didn't have a wand to chill them, but it didn't matter. Popping the tops, he offered one to Roger before taking a drink of his own. "Not too bad of a place if I do say so meself... Ya should see the room... windows ev'rywhere."

Fuckin' hell, Jack had a real pair o'arms to him. It weren't none a shock or anythin' but-- fuckin' hell.

The squib collapsed on to the steps leading a floor up, shoulders hunched forward as he peered over at his mate. The bloke had been crashing with 'im in Camden Town for a while now. He didn't give a knut 'bout sharin' space but it were sort've cool that he'd gone found himself a place. And steady job too.

"Aye," Roger caught a bottle gratefully. There were voices comin' from downstairs but nuffin' too loud. He didn't much care 'bout what people said, least not in a sober mind. "Thank ye."

Still, it felt safer for 'im living with the muggles. He didn't envy Jack, who weren't much of a wizard t'begin with.

"I cannae imagine ye living here," Roger's lips twitched into a grin before he quaffed down the tepid ale. "But ye got a good thing goin', ye do. Be'er than beatin' on muggles."

"I cannae imagine ye living here, but ye got a good thing goin', ye do. Be'er than beatin' on muggles."

" Ayup naw, Ah only bea' on those tha' deserve it, mate. It don't matta if thee are muggles or nowt...." Jack chuckled as he flopped onto the futons thin and thoroughly worn mattress, sinking into it gratefully. It was nice to not only rest his aching muscles but to actually own something on which to do so. The feeling doubled when he took a swig of the beer. Sure it was piss warm, and flat, but it was bought with his own money. Not given out of pity or bought with borrowed money or 'liberated' from a truck, but purchased with money he had earned. For Jack, there were few feelings in the world better than being able to take care of oneself, especially without magic.

It was this thought that made his grin falter. Sighing, he ran a hand over his head, the ridges of his scars both a haunting reminder and a welcome familiarity, and leaned his head back. "Ta be 'onest, mate, ah can't eitha." Staring at the ceiling as he took a long, thoughtful swig, Jack recalled his fathers warning. Don't show yer face an' don't say yer name, yer dead t'me. Yer dead t'ya mum an' yer sister. It was clear that he wasn't supposed to be in Diagon Alley, acting like he was allowed to be there. Like he was allowed to be alive. But what choice did he have? He didn't belong any moreso in the muggle world and he couldn't live in the woods forever. Licking his lips, he added "Ah don't belong anywhere, do ah? No' much ova muggle or a wizard, me."

It occured to Jack that he was bringing down the mood. Sitting up quickly, he offered his beer to Roger for a toast. "But ah'm 'ere now an' ah plan on makin' t'best of it. Cheers."

Roger let out a bark of laughter at his friend's punch-'em attitude, 'appy in the fact that he weren't the only one who'd enjoy gettin' into a brawl with a few rotten blokes after a pint or two. He leaned forward on his knees, grinning t'begin with and then sort've sobered up at Jack's admission.

"Didn't mean t'get ye down..." he scratched his head, lookin' sorry. That were a feelin' Roger could understand... not being 'ere or there. It were how he thought most squibs felt, even 'appy Abby and savvy Tilly.

He felt left out, is what he felt. But Jack 'ere had a whole different snag.

"Ye belong wherever ye make a home, mate." Roger's lips twitched into a rueful smile and he forgot 'bout his drink for a sec. "Me couch or this 'ere flat, wha'ever ye want. Aye, s'good 'nuff for us..." he toasted to his friend's cheers and tossed back a gulp.

The ale made it easier. Not just movin' shit or talkin' bout their fuckin' problems but just gettin' through a bad day. God knew they 'ad a bloody bit of those between the pair o'them.

"What're ye plans, come Christmas?" Roger pushed past the thought. "Mulled wine an' a wee bash?"