After hearing from his son about the goings on of Hogwarts, he'd realized it was a more desperate situation than he'd initially realized. Torolf had intended to remain behind at Durmstrang, to continue his lessons and make sure that the students still there would get the appropriate education. But Torolf had a higher calling- and there were a handful of students at Hogwarts and from Beauxbatons who might still yet be redeemed. So he found himself seeking permission from the headmaster to come to Hogwarts and endow his particular brand of intelligence and wisdom upon the students. Especially the ones still young enough to learn the error of their ways before the horrible habits of muggle loving set in for good.

He had been taking his time settling into the pitiful excuse for a castle that was Hogwarts. They had opted to house the Durmstrang visitors in the dungeons of all places. However appropriate the setting might have been, Torolf found it incredibly rude and felt as though they could have offered up something a bit more hospitable.

Of those from Hogwarts housed below levels, he had found the couple of Slytherin students he'd met to be tolerable. But the other house down there- those who wore the gold fringed robes- had been anything but. Cheery even. What kind of adults was Hogwarts breeding? Not the sort who could last for very long in the real world it seemed like.

Torolf had already planned his first lesson of the new year. He just needed to gather a few supplies for it. Which is why he found himself visiting Knockturn. For all of its bad reputation, he found the place to be quite tame in comparison. Torolf stepped carefully over a pile of muck in the street, wrinkling his nose in disgust as his wand cast a quick preservation spell over the dragon hide his boots were made of.[1]

He hated to ask for the aid of strangers- but half of the shops in the alley had no signs out front. Ah well. Torolf poked his walking stick gently into the shoulder of a stranger. "Pardon me," he began, "but is there any sort of... antiques shop down this alley?" That was the best description he could think of to describe the particular items he was looking for. He had no desire to divulge to a stranger what he was looking for in specifics.

1.

outfit

Of those from Hogwarts housed below levels, he had found the couple of Slytherin students he'd met to be tolerable. But the other house down there- those who wore the gold fringed robes- had been anything but. Cheery even. What kind of adults was Hogwarts breeding? Not the sort who could last for very long in the real world it seemed like.

Gale stopped a moment to admire his reflection in a puddle before he stepped in the water to break the surface with a grin. He’d splashed in nearly every puddle that came within his path until the hem of his pants was dark and soiled, but the very feeling of life pulsed through him and compelled him to do it again. It had been so long since he’d been in such a fight like that of the night before, that he forgot what it felt like the next day, and how horrid bruises looked on his otherwise porcelain skin. However, his entire being was itching to do it again, and Gale was half  inclined to simply throw an insult at the next person to brush his shoulder.

The rain he feared wasn’t ever going to end, but at least it died down to a miserable mist while the streets opened up. He hadn’t remembered where he had fallen asleep, or how it was he came to be where he woke up; but Gale was thanking his lucky stars that the night had chosen to spare him. He’d thought it was his lover, those strong and faithful hands, but in truth it had been a stranger. Somehow he’d managed to make it home, clean himself and change for the day, but now Gale wasn’t going to down the alley to get his tattoo touched up—he needed proof that last night wasn’t just a horrid nightmare.

The touch to his shoulder sent an electric chill over his spine, his fists balled up to strike, but Gale stopped himself upon seeing the face of the stranger. Oh my… What a handsome man, and in such a fine suit.

“I’m sorry?” He spoke before he could stop himself, his spider-silk hair sticking to his face and collecting the misty rain, He ran his cold fingers through the silken strands to try and make himself presentable, but no amount of primping would ever compare to this man’s posh appearance. The comb he’d gotten for Christmas at least held most of the mess of white from his face.

“I…” He started looking down the row, having heard the man, but otherwise confused as to why he’d ask, but Gale scanned the street with his good eye “No. Not on this street at least.” He would know, he was a great lover of old things, and with a little stolen glance to the stranger would happily add him to that list.

“Just over the stretch there,” Gale pointed before he pulled his sweater that he wore more like a wrap around him further to help shield from the cold he suddenly felt, “I can show you, come on.” With that he snapped his boots to walk, and didn’t look back to see if the stranger was following him or not.

Torolf pondered momentarily if perhaps he had approached the wrong stranger. The man looked a little worse for wear, and upon closer inspection the hem of his pants was incredibly soiled. Any proper wizard would be sure to charm his clothing to prevent such a thing from ever happening. Of course, considering his surroundings, Torolf should not be expecting to meet a large number of proper witches and wizards. Just street trash and riff-raff. The eye patch was a bit off putting as well. Ah well. If he'd last this long living on the streets, he likely knew his way about. Torolf could get his directions and be done with the man.

"If you're intending to lead me back to Diagon, they do not have the particular brand of antique I am looking for," he said to the man as he pointed in another direction and started to briskly walk away. Perhaps antique was no the appropriate word to describe precisely what he was looking for? His English was quite good, but on occasion he could not find the exact word he was looking for when talking to those who spoke the language in their native tongue. It was not surprising. Languages tended to jumble when you knew as many as Torolf did. He had always been the overachiever.

Torolf took a couple of longer strides to fall into step beside the street person. "They are of a less than pleasant nature," he divulged. Surely if this man tried to go to the authorities nobody would give any credence to what he had to say. Of course, as far as Torolf was aware, it was not illegal to purchase the sort of items he was looking for. He just doubted that a standard shop would carry anything of the sort.

"I was pointed to Knockturn by an associate," he lied with ease, adjusting his coat and fluffing out his ascot. "I cannot remember the name of the shop mentioned to me. I am unfamiliar with London." He did his best to avoid the city, really. The only cities worse than London were American ones. They tried to live in harmony with the muggles rather than eradicate them from existence- which was the appropriate way to do things.

The weight of this man's judgmental eye made Gale feel as though he carried river stones on his shoulders--the rain didn't help either, but Gale still pressed on. The little comment about moving to a different street wasn't missed, nor was the way the man seemed very put off to admit that he didn't know the city. When the man kept going on about how he was for sure it was in Knockturn, Gale held up his hands to stop him.

"Look at me, Old Man, do you think I know anything about being pleasant? You don't have to answer that, I see it well enough on your face. I know the shop, I was actually heading there myself. So just stop talking and keep up." Rather short in his answering, Gale pressed on not bothering to see if the man followed or not. He could take those little judgmental pretty eyes of his and find his own way if the need came. Maker, he had half a mind to lead this bloke down one of the alleys and give him a piece of his mind.

It wasn't outside of Gale's nature to instantly turn his nose up at men dressed the way Torolf was, but he hated above all else to be spoken down to. The man hadn't truly sounded very rude, but he was holding back--and Gale almost hated that more. However, he himself hadn't gotten up on the right side of bed this morning anyway, and his head was pounding. Little fingers came to touch his temple as Gale seemed to fold into himself before shivering, half from the cold and half from the pain, and only tightened his hold around his sweater.

The street person's sudden shift in behavior was slightly unsettling. He should have been a bit more particular about whom he prodded for directions. Ah well, he had learned his lesson, and in the future he would seek out a better looking citizen... Or a shop keep. If you spent enough in another's business, they didn't mind pointing you to another. For the moment, however, the strange man did not seem particularly dangerous. And should things turn ugly, Torolf had faith in his capabilities to defend himself.

Even so, he fell into step behind the man who was leading him. "It would appear you know very little about pleasantries," Torolf commented. Even though this man was so clearly beneath his own social station, Torolf had been- at the very least- perfectly civil, if not on the verge of pleasant. At least, pleasant in comparison to his usual behavior and interactions with strangers. Usually his better nature was reserved for people who mattered. In the last few years since he had lost his position in Norgwegian government, Torolf had become noticeably more short tempered and even less tolerant of others.

"What is your name, good sir?" Torolf finally asked. If he was going to follow the man about wizarding London, it was only proper he know how to properly address the fellow. Besides, if he turned out to be untrustworthy it was always worth it to have a name to report to the authorities... Should the need arise.

First came the insult, and then the gentleman wanted his name? Gale almost had to fight back a bit of laughter as he looked over his shoulder to his walking companion. There was a great deal of debate going on if he should even offer it, but as he started to work together the puzzle that was this stranger--Gale came up with a rather simple solution.

"You don't want to know my name," He brushed off the subject rather quickly to continue, "And if you are looking for a rent boy, Monsieur. I assure you that though it may look differently in my little downward spiral from the last few weeks." Really he was no good on his own, "I'm not looking for a hero in pretty clothes, with handsome eyes, and a firm jaw. I'm actually happily spoken for." He turned his eye over to the man once again to regard him lightly.

"But if you are in the mood for those sorts of sports, I would suggest you come back at a later hour. Most of the hookers are not up yet."

Torolf stared in mix surprised and disgust as the stranger suddenly accused im of looking for a rent boy. His brows furrowed in confusion as he worked through the meaning of the phrase. It was one he was not familiar with. Slang often caught him off guard. He had learned proper English, never bothering with slang or colloquialisms. Torolf wondered for half a moment if in his inquiries he had used some sort of strange slang for prostitute... Surely antique did not mean male prostitute?

"I am afraid you misunderstand," he said through gritted teeth, taking a dangerous step toward the man who had so thoroughly insulted him. "I am not in the market for a man or woman of the night. I am a happily married man with children. Nor was I attempting to..." he trailed off for a moment, searching for the right words. "Insinuate any attraction toward you. My interests are strictly the opposite sex, and strictly my wife." At least that was what he told strangers.

"It would do you well, sir," if he was indeed a sir at all, "to be more careful whom you choose to insult in such a manner. I do not suffer fools lightly. If you are incapable of aiding me with my request, I shall find someone with a larger level of competence. I was going to pay you for your troubles- certainly a man such as yourself could use an extra galleon or two in your pocket. I do not often take pity upon those who are too lazy or incapable of helping themselves... It was a such a sudden moment of pity I am quite certain it will go away just as suddenly should you continue to be so incredibly inappropriate and disagreeable."

Gale stared at the man as he spoke, enjoying the height difference, and how passionate the other seemed. Devoted he said, but there was something...something that seemed vacant and missing. Perhaps it wasn't in the other's love life, and perhaps it was of his lack of adventurous life or the way he...Gale stopped writing a book around this beautiful stranger, and took the moment to simply stare at him.

In all of his words, he still took them lightly, the anger rising off the other man like a sea, and Gale sadistically loved the beating. He was such a beautiful storm, dark and intriguing even with his silver hair and quizzical brow.

"My friend," Gale spoke, a smile breaking through from his pale lips, "Forgive me, but it's not every day someone dressed as you are venture to such a place. You will understand, won't you?" Oh, how that anger excited him, and Gale admired it even longer while fighting back a smirk. What a dangerous beautiful creature, in such a sharp dressed man. Between the man's eyes he studied, and finally let his lips lift in a smile.

"That you stick out like a sore thumb here, and are likely to lose more than your wallet." He kept his much kinder smile and welcomed the man on. "If you think my opinion is one of the worst, I wouldn't advise you to turn around." There were strangers there, staring at Torolf as if he were their next meal ticket, and idle entertainment.

"My name is Ross." He lied, but Torolf wouldn't know that. After what happened last night, and put such horrid marks on his otherwise porcelain skin, he wasn't about to believe someone like this was just out after some antiques. "And it is a shame that you are not interested. I'd be the talk of the town with an employer like you." Gale enjoyed the role he was playing, and tightened his sweater around him as the rain started to pick up. The cold mist was refreshing and felt good on his very painful swelling.

"This way," He pushed on ducking under a few coverings to have their walk start on, "And now that you know my name, do I get yours?"

Torolf had a sneaking suspicion this had little to do with his manner of dress. As a traditional pureblood, he clothed himself a certain way. This particular outfit was not very different from the way the purebloods he knew of Great Britain to dress. He was not one to be overly concerned with the negative consequences of proper attire, and as far as his wallet was concerned... Well, that would be a drop in the bucket in the long run.

Besides, he was well aware of the darker nature of many pureblood families of the area. He also knew they frequented Knockturn alley- it had been a friend such as this who had pointed him here. Perhaps this fellow just wasn't as familiar with the area. Or, perhaps, this fellow- who had now introduced himself as Ross, was simply trying to intimidate or manipulate him. Torolf was not a man easy to intimidate, and was far too self serving for manipulation. Either way, Ross was suddenly being far more cooperative.

... And then he made some comment about having Torolf as an employer. Her arched an eyebrow, wondering if this street person was a male escort. He couldn't imagine anyone paying a hefty sum for a night with a man as dirty and unkempt as this. Not that Torolf was interested, at all, in hiring a male prostitute- but if he was, he would not hire someone like that. (But Torolf did not have to pay for his fun or for any other sort of romantic company- he was wealthy, charming, and powerful. That was all he needed.)

"Gundersen," he responded. "And I shall take your comments on my appearance and manner of dress as a compliment. One's attire should always reflect the way they wish to be perceived and match their station in life." And naturally, Torolf considered his station to be among the upper echelons of society and influence. As a professor at Durmstrang, he had a lot of influence. He could shape or break the life of anyone who passed through his classroom. Torolf liked knowing he had that capability...

It had been a heartbreakingly rough night, and though his face was pounding the cold rain felt good across the darkened skin. By now his hem was ruined, his shoes too, his feet soaked, and his hair. Hell, even the little bells he wore around his ankle were too muddy to sing. But in a last attempt to keep the comb from being ruined he pulled it free from his pale strands and enjoyed the warmth of his hair as it fell down his back.

"Gunderson," He repeated the name, and smiled, "It's very fitting of you." With a bit of look over his shoulder he turned his sad smile up to the stranger, and wondered at what he must have thought if he valued an appearance so much. It was a shame really, Gale would have loved to have known this man without his stiff spine and far too nice attire. He bet he had beautiful laugh.

"I wish I could agree with your Mister Gunderson, but I fear that I can not," Gale answered in a quiet voice, "I was raised to think that the outside was nothing more than a shell, that it was inside that truly mattered. We are all the same that way." His pale little hands clasped his sweater tighter, but it wasn't the cold that made him do so. "And I'd like to keep thinking that if you don't mind."

They came the step of the store, the one Gale felt certain was where this man wanted, and he paused on the stoop unwilling to go inside--at least not first.

"This is it. You'll find whatever it is you are looking for here, and if not I'm sure the keep will know what is next." Gale strained his neck to look up at the man, the water having long since pressed his hair so that his slightly pointed and over decorated ears poked through. What a sight he was, and with a little bit of laughter that was more at himself and the situation than anything he smiled up at the man.

"Good luck."

This man was ridiculous. He went on a little speech about how it was what was on the inside that mattered. What a sad little man to think such a thing. Your name, connections, and what you appeared to be mattered far more. Especially as far as success was concerned. It was no wonder this person was living upon the street and attempting to lull men such as himself into patronage. Torolf had no use for men like this Ross. Prostitution was a disgusting occupation- one of the utmost disgrace and repulsion. Men and women must be desperate indeed to hire such a man as this one- with his muddy clothes, unkempt hair, and eye patch.

"Of course you were," Torolf responded. "Those of lesser breeding are always raised to believe that appearance does not matter. It is a sad, pitiful lie which they tell themselves in order to feel better about their unfortunate circumstances. However, should you wish continue laboring under such a false pretense- far be it from me to attempt to persuade you otherwise. My exterior is perfectly trimmed, ornate, and severe- just as my insides are." Torolf Gundersen was many things, but a pleasant person he was not.

The shop now located, the man seemed to finally be eager to leave Torolf's company. Gundersen was not going to complain. He had learned an important lesson today about taking the help of a stranger. "I appreciate your aid," he lied easily, stepping up to the door of the shop. Reaching into a pocket, he extracted a few galleons and handed them to the man. "Perhaps a good meal and a warm bed would behoove you," he said. "I suggest you put this money to that use rather than frivolity." Such as alcohol or drugs.

Torolf tilted his chin a bit, then entered the shop, shaking off the clinging air of strangeness and disgust that the man who'd led him hear had left him with. Torolf was looking forward to learning his way around the shops of wizarding Britain and being at Hogwarts- away from such individuals. Never did he think he'd look forward to being at that castle, but yet there it was- that feeling.

Nightingale watched the man, the coins as cold in his hands as he imagined they had been in the other's pocket, and his eye showing no signs of warmth. What a miserable creature, Gale thought to himself standing on the step to watch him in the shop, and for the first time in a very long time Gale wanted nothing more than to drag the man's body back outside to undo all of that exterior--perfectly trimmed, ornate, and severe thing that it was. However, when the door closed Gale's fingers who had long since curled around the coins to shape a fist, relaxed and a smirk played across his lip like a slow drag from a cigarette.

"Bottle is on me tonight, Bub," Gale said to the homeless man who had watched the entire ordeal unfold and flicked the coins at him. The man's toothless grin gave way and he thanked the Professor.

"Well actually it's on him. Don't forget your manners and thank him when he comes out?" With that Gale slipped back down the street to head home.