Every year, he tried to get out of attending these sorts of events, and every year, Kurby failed at least once.  This time, it had been a stern look from his grandmother, Millicent Bagnold, at the family Christmas dinner and he had been left without recourse.  It did not matter that his department felt as if it was falling apart.  It did not matter that there had been a full moon only two nights before.  No: the family matriarch had decreed that the presence of her youngest grandson was required at this year's Winter Opera, and so he'd had no choice but to begrudgingly attend.

At least the preamble to the event included the promise of alcoholic beverages.  As soon as they entered, Kurby immediately began scanning the room, stopping only when his eyes fell upon the bar.  His grandmother gave him a Look, but he ignored it.  Before Millicent could open her mouth to say a word, some old colleague from her days at the Ministry had swooped in to greet her, leaving him free to make his escape.

"Come on," he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Amherst, starting for the bar at a quick pace. 

The fact that his fellow coworker was also being forced to attend the night's events was only a nominal concert.  He still wasn't sure if she was there as his date; they had never actually discussed it other than in vague, roundabout terms, and frankly, Kurby didn't really want to know.  But unlike the werewolf hunter, who was dressed in the same suit that he begrudgingly dragged out every year, Margo looked as if she actually wanted to be there.  He would never tell her that she looked nice in her flame-red dress, but the look suited her.  Not to mention that it showed off her scars.

They reached the bar a moment later, and Kurby immediately lay claim to a generous amount of counter space.  "Two Firewhiskeys," he informed the bartender gruffly, digging into his pockets for some coins.  Tip early and generously: that was a surefire way to make certain that the alcohol continued to flow.

And flow it did.  Within moments, he'd received the two drinks.  Kurby handed one off to his not-date, turned so that he was impolitely leaning his elbows back on the counter, and shifted position so that he could survey the rest of the room.

"Your team," he informed Margo, nodding to an elderly witch who was walking by with what appeared to be an entire peacock assembled on her head.  "And cheers.  Here's hopin' we make it through the night, huh?" he asked sourly, before downing a good half of his glass in one swallow.

Being dragged to the Winter Opera wasn’t the worst thing she had ever had to do for her family.  She remembered the days of large, white and green dresses, expectations her family had of her as a child, and the events she had to attend then.  Now, as an adult, she could make some choices. 

Coming to this shindig hadn’t been her choice, but she had been allowed to choose what she wanted to wear, despite having to go with her mother to pick it out.  Thankfully, even with all of their problems, her mother wasn’t the type of witch who tired to dictate what Margo should and shouldn’t do.  It appeared, unlike many of the women in the family, they didn’t realize that if they told her no, she would emphatically scream yes, or vice versa.  So, Margo was actually in something of her choice. 

The flame red dress with black accents showed off the actually quite female side of Margo that she did not let show all that often., complete with cascading brown curls!  Plus, she got to show off her scars, and though she normally didn’t flaunt them, the way that her grandmother’s friends looked at her was just priceless. 

Besides, she could survive since it had been confirmed Kurby was going as well, and that meant she could ditch her family as long as she promised to show up with him.  That wouldn’t be too hard; after all, it wasn’t a stretch to suggest they’d made a blood pact to go.  Of course, she wasn’t immediately aware that they were going with his grandmother – scary woman she was – and even Margo stood up straighter near her (and tried to hide her beaten up boots under the hem of her dress).   Even Kurby wore a suit.  Which, you know, wasn't a new one or anything - but he did clean up rather well - for Kurby - not that she noticed.

But, when Kurby muttered for her to follow him, and they had a chance to escape, Margo took it without a second thought – and breathed a sigh of relief.  They were heading straight for the promised land: the bar. 

Margo took a seat next to Kurby and smiled at the bartender, naturally – he was the one responsible for taking care of them, and situated herself so she could hook the tiny heels of her boots on the rungs of the stool, like any proper lady might (right).  She took her firewhiskey with haste, not bothering to dig into the ridiculously tiny (outwardly) bag that she was forced to carry because it was the thing to do, and sighed, happily, breathing in the smell of her drink before lifting it to her painted lips (her mother had done it – spells and everything to keep her together, as her sister so kindly pointed out she might need). 

She practically spit her drink on Kurby as he pointed to some witch with the most ghastly hat Margo had ever seen and she struggled to unpuff her cheeks and swallow down the mouthful of whiskey.  “Cheers,” she croaked with a bit of a cough and raised her glass, clinking it against his before she looked around.

A smirk curled her lips and she used her glass to point out a portly looking wizard with a festively curled moustache that must have been about three inches long with two curls at the end looking quite interestedly at the contents of his handkerchief.  “Definitely your team,” she muttered, swiveling just a bit on the seat before taking another sip. 

“This is good,” she added, “much better than the trash we usually drink."

The werewolf hunter eyed the latest addition to His Team with disdain.  The walrus-looking wizard had apparently tired of examining the contents of his handkerchief, and was now casting a surreptitious look about the room.  Apparently coming to the conclusion that no one was watching him, he crumbled up the handkerchief and abandoned it on one of the wooden cocktail tables, toddling off with an air of complete innocence.

Kurby gave a snort, shaking his head as he returned his attention to Margo.  Clearly His Team.

"Yeah, well."  He gave a gruff shrug, barely glancing at the contents of his glass before he took another gulp.  It might have been considerably better than what they usually drank, but this upper crust Firewhiskey was also considerably more expensive than their usual poison.  That might not matter to Amherst, who was living off of the boon of her family's fortune and barely seemed to notice that galleons even existed, but it mattered to him.  He didn't need to spend a month's wages at this mess tonight.

The thought left him feeling extremely uncomfortable, but it was a problem that he wasn't going to think about tonight.  No:  He was here to imbibe as much high-quality alcohol as he could, to embarrass his grandmother enough that she dragged Rosheen along to these events instead of him the next time, and possibly to enjoy whatever time he got with Amherst during the intermission.  Not to think.  Certainly not to think about obstacles that didn't matter, since he was not thinking about these things to begin with.

Although if he happened to imbibe free high-quality alcohol instead of the horridly expensive Firewhiskey, he'd still consider that a win.  Kurby finished off the rest of his Firewhiskey and then eyed the nearest server who was circling with flutes of champagne.

He timed his attack, and then grabbed for one of the champagne glasses; in the process, he managed to jostle someone who'd come up behind him. 

"Watch it!" he snapped irritably.  Flashing a smirk at Margo, he settled back against the bar.  "Who knows if they'll be handed these out after the Intermission?  Hey," he continued, with almost a hint of interest.  He wasn't interested, but at this point, talking was better than an awkward silence as he scanned the crowd for something else to put on Amherst's Team.  "You got any idea what this thing is supposed to be about tonight?  What're the chances we'll get to watch some idiot get stabbed on stage?"

Margo was proud of herself. 

She had found one of the most vile and awkward specimens of men to put on Kurby’s team.  Not even she would be crass enough to throw a used handkerchief on a table for a server to clean up.  That would be absolutely disgusting. 

She wouldn’t touch it – no one else should either. Hopefully they’d use their wand, or else they’d contract some weird disease.  Turning away from sight of their large friend, Margo swirled her glass and took another drink.  It was to die for.  She   wanted to look over the edge of the bar and see what brand it was.  Maybe she’d get some. 

Sitting flat again, Margo finished her drink and waved her freshly done hands (again, courtesy of her mother), at the bartender for another.  Apparently it worked, because before another person was served, there was a glass in front of her and Margo even managed to dig through her clutch-thing whatever it was to get a few coins to put down – good tip, better drinks. 

Plus, she wasn’t going to have Kurby shell out for everything.  This was not a date.  Even though they hadn’t talked about it, that much was pretty clear, just by virtue of how they treated one another.  Sure, they had agreed to show up together, and sit together, and were drinking together, and were probably going to either fall asleep or make snarky comments all night to one another, then have intermission together… and then go back to the apartment complex… but this wasn’t a date.  Not even a little bit.

Turning on her seat, she caught the tail end of Kurby grabbing a champagne flute and raised her eyebrows.  “Thanks for mine,” she commented gruffly, heavy with sarcasm, but without any actual offense, grinning over the edge of her glass before taking a sip.  It burned just a little, much less than the first glass, and Margo almost snorted into the liquid at his comment.

“Hell if I know,” she shrugged, “If it’s boring enough, you might get to see me stab myself.” She licked a stray drop of whiskey out from the corner of her mouth.  Her eyes drifted around the crowd again, unsure of what to say – considering she really had no idea what this dreadful thing was going to be about.

Her eye was caught by another person at the bar though, taller, darker stranger with a leather tie, all dark colors on.  Since it wasn’t a date, she leaned over and nudged his shoulders with hers extending her glass toward him and laughed,  “Can that one be on my team?”

The werewolf hunter gave a grunt that was neither denial nor affirmation as he swigged the flute of champagne in a single go.  This was presumably not the way that good champagne was intended to be imbibed; he could tell by the way his tongue burned as it went down. 

"That's not how the game works," he said grumpily.  "You can't put people on your own team."

The floor was getting decidedly more crowded.  Kurby straightened, scanning the room for another server bearing free champagne.  They probably still had a few minutes before the Opera was due to start, and he was not particularly eager to get to his seat -- but he was also suddenly not eager to be out here on the floor, where Amherst was apparently intent on annoying him by seeking out well-dressed bachelors to claim for herself.

"Maybe we should get drinks and head upstairs," he said, calculating.  He probably couldn't carry enough to his seat to get him through the first act, but with a few more glasses of free champagne, he should be able to get enough of a buzz to get him through the whole first act.  Then came Intermission, and if he couldn't escape then, at least the rest of this torture would all be downhill.  "I'm sure as bleedin' hell not lookin' forward to the rush when all of these idiots try to scramble to their seats."

It wasn’t really Margo’s fault that Kurby could be so sensitive about stupid things.  Honestly, it wasn’t as though she didn’t expect him to be looking around the room for some pathetic dolt of a veela-wannabe that would oh so easily peel off her knickers (if she was even wearing any to begin with) for him.  “I can play however I like to,” she replied while wrinkling her nose, like she used to at Liadan when they were forced to interact at family events as children. 

She rolled her eyes and swiveled on the seat, though not before motioning the bartender to refresh their glasses.  Margo indecorously slapping a coin on the counter that was more than enough for the glasses and tip.  Definitely more than enough.

Hopefully the bartender would take notice and top them off just a little higher than before.  “I got this round,” she smiled just as generously as she tipped over her shoulder at the bartender, the dragon tattoo on her shoulder blade blowing a little puff of smoke as it moved over the perch that was also tattooed there.  “Just grab two flutes of champagne next time one of the penguins makes his way around and we can head to our seats,” she sighed. 

She didn’t want to sit through this thing, but didn’t seem like she had much of a choice right now.  “Or…” she leaned in close, an impish smile on her face, eyebrows raised and chewing on the insider corner of her lip, “We could just sneak out… go to a bar… make an appearance again at Intermission, then go home and get pissed.” 

Her smile was expectant, maybe he would buy it.  Just maybe.