There was little life now in the darkened pub at the end of Knockturn Alley.  The magical lanterns had long since burned out, and the decor inside was matted with a growing layer of dust.  It said something of the community's onetime respect for this place that very little had been touched inside, for all of these past few months: decorations still hung where they'd been, and though there wasn't a drop of beer left, no one had come to scavenge for furniture yet.  But it was clear that the Black Chimaera was very, very dead.  The pile of forgotten bones in a box near the counter; the fading menus peeling behind the bar; deserted chairs left leaning against tables, or strewn abandoned the ominous, haunting room.

Haunting, and quite literally haunted.  Aside from two rats who'd gone scurrying away when he'd pushed the creaking door open, the cantankerous ghost of an old man, hunched at the counter staring mournfully at the cover of a Veela Vixen magazine, was the only presence left to greet him.

It hadn't taken long to open negotiations.

"Leave it there.  It'll get to him."  There was a pause.  "Probably."

One of Aviad's eyebrows quirked.  "Probably?" he echoed dryly.

The ghost turned an impenetrable gaze on him.  Slowly, the shade of its mouth twisted into a smirk.  "Better odds if you leave payment."

It hadn't taken long to negotiate the terms.  At the barest root of it all, most men and women wanted little more than a few select things out of life; Aviad knew that better than most.  For the dead, their needs and desires were even more base.

When he departed, the magazine had been carefully dissected; its pages spread across the counter, weighted down with old mugs and broken pieces of shattered glass.  In the middle of it all sat an envelope, sealed with with a stamp of crimson wax and addressed in sanguine ink.

---

Tawse,

I work for a man who is a great fan of your work.  He speaks of little else these days, even though it has been so long since your last performance.  The danger, the thrills, the excitement, the human interest -- what else could the public want?

Perhaps the quiet, retired life has been enough that you'd care for a chat and a beer?  We'd like to discuss a return to the stage.

Your faithful spirit knows how to reach me.  We've discussed payment already, provided that last summer's Swimsuit Edition of Veela Vixen isn't too hard to locate at this time of year.

I leave the other terms up to you.

Aviad Cohen

January 27th

There was no question.  When compared to one's former living state, there were more disadvantages to being a ghost than there were advantages.  The memories of roasts and cakes and perfume had not faded much from the ex-Azzie's mind.  Days were long and boring, since only the mind (and not the body) could truly be occupied.  For one who was never a very cerebral bloke in life, such an existence was extremely tedious. 

But, there was the occasional silver lining.  Take harassing stinking muggles, for instance.  The wretched little muggles couldn't see nor hear him as a ghost but even they could feel him.  Whenever Manfred Ashford found himself floating through the muggle streets of London, he found a rare source of amusement from gliding through as many unsuspecting muggles as possible.  The flightier and more superstitious, the better.  As long as no one from the Ministry's Spirit Division was about, Manfred could haunt muggles to his poor, translucent heart's content.  The last girl must have even been one of those annoying muggle believers, as well.  Dressed in skimpy black leather with lots of shiny metals stubs and posts, she'd instantly turned and flashed a photo on those tiny squawking boxes muggles carried with them everywhere.  Just as she started gabbing on about something abnormal on the photo, Manfred looked up to find he'd reached the dirty, grimy windows of the King's Inn. 

After a final, parting leer, Manfred drifted through the Inn walls and hovered in a slumped seated position in a couch opposite this Cohen fellow in the not-so-noble darkened hotel lounge.  Mannie gave the man's lunch and beer wistful, forlorn consideration before casting a glance around the room.  Being mid-afternoon, the lounge was near abandoned.  The old man in the corner seemed too drunk to be aware of his surroundings. 

"I'm not dancin'" Manfred said.  Of course, there was little chance the man was aware of the humor Cinaed had found in equating Mannie to a singing, dancing telegram.  "He wants to know who you're workin' for.  And, how long."  Of course, Cinaed's response had been more an idle curiosity than a demand for further information.  But, Mannie had been paid for delivering messages, not exercising tact. 

"Man's dead bored.  Tired of hiding out in kitschy old lady houses."  Again, not exactly Cinaed's words.  "He'll meet you for beer if you'll agree to additional terms.  Along with the magazine, you agree to come by and open the pub's windows for a week."  Cinaed was entirely unaware of the current terms.  "The place gets stuffy." 

There was only so much that he could do now besides wait.  Day after agonizingly inactive day rolled from one into the other -- some improving, and many others painful.  Today, he'd spent most of the morning lounging about the King's Inn.  The run-down hotel was quiet enough that he'd even let Tzippori out.  His skeletal familiar was currently somewhere up in the rafters, unsuccessfully trying to detach the screws that held the shabby old chandelier in place by tugging them with his beak.

He had just started on lunch when he'd felt the same familiar tingling sense -- the instant of anticipation before plunging into an icy, frozen bath -- and then the ghost had plunged through the wall.  Aviad had stopped mid-bite, his sandwich still held to his mouth, eyebrows raised as he listened to what the shade had to say.

He finished chewing and swallowed, smiling as he set the food down again.  Less terms than one might expect, though the "terms" decidedly had one party's interests in mind. 

"Yes, spirit.  I'll come and keep you company."  He glanced up at the ceiling.  Tzippori, in his indefatigable persistence, was hanging upside down by one claw, still tugging at the same screw.  Ghosts and spectres were hardly few and far between here in London, but it seemed that even amongst wizards and mages, few people seemed to notice them.

"Give Tawse my thanks.  Ask him when and where.  Don't find me again; I'll stop by to see you tomorrow."  He picked up his sandwich again.  Between this and the little pickpocket from the other day, it felt as if things that had been long slumbering were finally stirring awake.

It might be time to start a candle burning.