Ira Almasy enjoyed disguises.

And more than the disguise, she enjoyed her performance. It was nightfall in the city when the witch strode into Knockturn Alley- a sight in cream robes and auburn hair. For all the fineness of her walk, she was built sturdily and with the frame of a woman who didn't need a wand to carry herself around such parts.

"Got a light, luv?" a grey vagrant of a man leaned lankily outside of the signless pub she had stopped by. Ira brushed a curl behind her ear, smiling enticingly at him. Bland.

That was the particular species of wizards and half-breeds you found in this shitty crook they called an alley. The thought did not enter her eyes, which were deep and dark and hid secrets very well.

"That depends," she bared her teeth as the crisp British accent escaped. "Do you enjoy being set on fire?"

Ira sneered and walked past, through the doors. She wouldn't put it past the cretin to delight in masochism. Inside the establishment there was little to no lighting at all. A fire lamp hung from a rotting post by the bar and the man who tended its taps quickly looked away as she entered. There were not many patrons.

"Adam," her figure threw a shadow that stretched to the far end of the tiny pub. "I believe there is a gentleman waiting for me. The bird fellow." A deeply sarcastic tone embellished her classification of Darius Gabor as a gentleman of all things. He was however the undesirable to see for this particular contract.

When Ira contracted a criminal for her own pursuits, she often did it in person. It was the only real way to understand the quality of services one would be enlisting. The bartender, still not meeting her in the eye, remained intent on polishing a spotless tankard. "Aye, down in the back. Can't miss 'im," he grunted.

"Good. Firewhiskey, the bottle and two glasses." Ira turned as she spoke and her gaze shifted directly to the table intended. The man was punctual- that was a tasteful start.

What was the old phrase? 'Punctuality is the virtue of the bored...?'

Darius huffed at the thought, cracking a sunflower seed with his teeth. He spat the shell into his opposite hand, maneuvered another into its place, and scowled down at his notebook and quill. He'd been trying to work out a summary of tournament events for the hard-ass who took his letters on the other side of the continent, but ah, what was the point? Azerbaijan had no stake in this Tournament, and even in the passing interest in Drumstrang's prospects had faded. He'd be tossed straight into the back pages again without a second thought. No, this business of writing could wait. There were better things to be done.

He glanced up from under a grizzle brow as someone sat down across from him. That would be his contact, he supposed. Damned woman didn't look like herself. She never did.

"Almasy-hanum," he muttered by way of greeting, slipping briefly into the old customs of the country where he'd been born. He dumped the seed-shells into the ash tray and flipped his notebook closed. He tipped the little burlap sack of sunflower seeds towards her, offering a few, and racked his brain for what little he knew of the liaison's life. That was the proper way to begin a conversation, after all. "...You look well, as usual. I trust your health continues to be good."

Blankly, as she sat, Ira eyed the sunflower seeds that Gabor had proffered. The woman ignored it and shifted her dark gaze to the criminal's face- crass, primitive. Shrewd.

"I am rarely otherwise," she responded dryly. It was almost protocol, this exchange of good health and well wishes. Only in Britain would even the scum initiate pointless pleasantries. This game, she played it sometimes, but not tonight. It mattered little to her if Darius Gabor was well. Only that he was alive.

Her hand moved stealthily from table to coat, retrieving a sealed envelope. Its contents would diffuse shortly once opened; this was a protocol of which she could approve. It was slid past the bag of seeds and towards the man.

"Details. I require recruitment for one and-" Ira paused to hold his stare carefully. "- shelter for another." This was one contract more than he would be expecting but she was confident of its receipt. "At triple your usual rate, of course."