Cinaed had arrived early.  Almost four hours early.  Not just because the fugitive had long since learned to take time and watch the lay of the land before revealing himself.  It took time to recognize the normal and abnormal.  To see if a cloaked figure was loitering just a bit longer than expected.  To gauge whether the day's pulse and feel of a street corner was significantly different than usual.  Those were important reasons, of course, but they were sufficient reasons for spending four hours amidst the scraggly, dead twigs in a second-story window box in a bitter, late-January snow. 

Only Cinaed Tawse's closest companions would understand it was nostalgia, more than caution, that had brought the magpie to survey that stretch of street.  Knockturn Alley, with all its dark twists and damp turns and stinky gutters, was home.  Or, at least, it had been.  It had been some time since he could sit back and watch the locals go about their business and feel a part of it.  A year and a half ago, Cinaed remembered sitting at the bar of his own pub, joking about KABANA, the Knockturn Alley Business and Neighborhood Association, being a red herring for the WBA.  Despite the false lead and the humor, Cinaed had felt some pride behind the idea.

Hopefully, by the end of the week, he'd be a part of it, again.  The new pub might be hundreds of miles away but with it's entrance, it's doorway sitting just off the alley, where it should be, it felt a part of it.  He felt a part of Knockturn Alley, again.  Finally, the magpie hopped up and glided down through the chimney into the Black Widow and shifted form once inside.  Shaking his arms out, he settled himself into a large, leather chair and awaited the other two's arrival. 

At the sounds of footsteps, Cinaed got to his feet and greeted the man with an extended hand.  "You must be Cohen," Cinaed greeted, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.  "You're not nearly as stout as-"  Cinaed's voice trailed off as he nodded.  Manfred had had a tendency to impart his own sullenness in the information he relayed in life; death had only strengthened that habit. 

The Black Widow.  The mage had clucked his tongue as he'd caught sight of the sign, but aside from eyeing it dryly, he hadn't said a word as he'd tried the door and made his way inside.  Such a...well, intentional description would have certainly never have flown under the radar back home, but maybe in a town like this, the majority of which was all clean-cut and well-maintained, the criminal contingent thought it was worth it for the atmosphere.

He knew what part he was playing today, and Aviad had been as forthright in his approach as he could.  A warm wool coat, a dark knit cap pulled low over his forehead -- the light dusting of snow was exotic enough that he was almost willing to deal with the cold.  He hadn't tried to evade attention; if Tawse had men out keeping watch for him, he was willing to be seen.  Surely, the infamous leader of the Wizarding Blood Alliance more than deserved a few paranoid eccentricities.

But paranoid did not seem to be the most apt description, for Tawse was waiting for him just inside the shop.  The Scotsman was enormous: all matted hair and an enormous, hulking presence that loomed over even the lanky mage, dwarfing Aviad by a good six inches.

He'd met Tawse's gaze, and reached out to return his grip, when the big wizard made his pronouncement.  Aviad blinked once at the man's statement, his eyebrows quirking slightly as momentary confusion flitted over his face.  But a second later, the meaning registered, and he let out a loud, wholehearted laugh.

"He said that, yeh?" he asked, grinning wickedly.  "Well.  I'm sorry to disappoint."  He took the big Scotsman's hand with a firm grip, looking the other wizard directly in the eye as he returned the handshake.

"So."  Aviad smirked as he took a step back, surveying the man in front of him.  There was no doubting his identity, save for a turn with Polyjuice Potion; surely no one else could hold a hair to the Scottish wizard without the use of a magical aid.  "You are the infamous Tawse.  I hope that making time for this meeting didn't impose too much on your schedule," he said, flashing his teeth in a quick, pointed grin.  "I hear that you are quite the busy man these days."

"Hardly a disappointment."  Cinaed countered with a good natured grin.  He gestured towards a nearby chair, inviting the man to take a seat.  As he lowered himself back into his chair, he waved his hand in a dismissive fashion.  "I've learned to take most of what Ashford says with a grain of salt."  Besides, Manfred calling most wizards stout was a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, even if it was an accurate description. 

"Infamous?  Am I?"  Cinaed chortled, shaking his head.  "Hopefully in a good way.  I've been away from the gossip for too long; I'm far too out of touch with what people are saying."  That had certainly been one of the benefits of the Black Chimaera: bring people together, fill them with booze and you were guaranteed to remain on the forefront of all the unprinted news.  The vast majority of it was useless and pointless - idle griping and complaining about family drama, women, the unfortunate state of modern wizard society or the occasional boasting or gesturing for one's place in the social hierarchy.  But, the occasional useful tidbit was destined to trickle out at some point.

In retrospect, it was no surprise that Cinaed would have found himself featured in the gossip circles.  Just before his flight, he'd assassinated the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, kidnapped his son and had a classic shoot out with the Head Auror and a few members of her brute squad.  All feats that had earned him the top rank of the Auror office's hit list. 

The one drawback to having Manfred play messenger was one couldn't always be certain what information had been passed along.  Or how it had been misconstrued or flat out changed in the process.  So, when Cohen flashed a grin and remarked on Cinaed's recent activity level it was difficult for the fugitive to guess what, exactly, the man found amusing.  Perhaps the man knew the truth and knew the secretive domestic life was wearing thin.  It was equally as likely Manfred had given the man the idea Cinaed was toiling every day undercover in a racing broom factory. 

And, if Cohen had been speaking with Nic, there was no telling what she would have contributed to the story.  She seemed to assume he was off at some boy's club every other night.  Merlin he loved Knockturn. 

"But.  Your letter mentioned a potential cure for boredom.  The natives are getting restless?"

Immediately, he could see the great power of Cinaed Tawse.  The man was a hulking giant -- Yeti, the moniker that had made its way into the paper, was hardly an understatement.  The hair, the beard, the hard features: when he wanted to, Aviad had no doubt that the Scottish wizard could be intimidating as hell.

But underneath it all -- the hair, the beard, the hard features, the height -- that was where the real power lay.  And right away, he knew it.  There was no way in the world that a mass murderer, a man wanted for so many heinous crimes, whose name was practically synonymous with "Wanted: Dead or Dead" should be in even the tiniest bit likable.  Aviad knew.  He'd run in those circles before.  The most hardened men weren't friendly; they didn't make quips when you shook hands.  They stared; they glowered; they could kill you with their bare hands and with a look, you knew it. 

The truly dangerous men were the ones who could manage all that and still act like you were next door neighbors when he greeted you with a friendly smile.

He chuckled at Tawse's recapping -- smart or not, he liked Ashford -- and flashed the wizard a quick smile.  Of all the things that he'd come to London to do, this was perhaps one of the trickiest, if not likely to trigger one of the quickest possible deaths.  He couldn't speak for the natives of Knockturn; he hardly knew them, besides what he'd been able to pick up in a couple of quick days observing and having his pocket picked.  A community like Knockturn Alley was by its nature not going to be particularly welcoming of outsiders.  But despite that, he was going to have to find a way in.

"Can't say that I can speak for the natives."  He followed Tawse's lead over to the chair.  The room was an inch chillier than he might have expected; it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on hand, which was a warning in itself.  Aviad rubbed absently at his shoulder, letting his eyes flicker over the room as he lowered himself to sit.  "I know it comes as a complete surprise," he said, flashing a pointed, pleased-with-himself smirk in Tawse's direction, "but I haven't been in town for very long.  I'm not so good that I can read the minds of everyone here.

"But elsewhere?"  He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, and then forced his attention wholly on Tawse.  Met the big man's eyes with his own glittering dark ones.  "There are a few," he began, with only the faintest hint of a smirk "who are very restless indeed.  And I'm hoping that their interests might be right in line with you natives."

Cinaed Tawse settled back into his seat, an expression on his face that was at the same time bemusedly curious and patiently obliging.  He knew the man hadn't been a part of Knockturn's usual inside crowd.  At least, not as of a year ago.  The Knockturn crowd was, by nature, a rather tightly knit, though distinctly paranoid, community.  Staunchly (and often viciously) loyal to their own but slow to fully accept newcomers.  Even if Cohen had arrived shortly after his flight, with close to a year under his belt, to claim he could speak for the locals would have been a foolish and potentially dangerous boast. 

"I haven't been in town for very long.  I'm not so good that I can read the minds of everyone here.

"I'm not sure you'd want to," Cinaed offered with a grin and light jovial chuckle. 

Cinaed Tawse met Aviad Cohen's gaze and held it, unwaveringly, and his casual grin flattened to a tighter smirk.  Those, alone, were the only visible indications of the inner changes to the nature of the man's interest.  Cohen spoke of a few but this few was from outside Knockturn.  A few that believed they had the ability to influence matters from afar.  It seemed Manfred had managed to accurately relay a few bits of information.   

"Your mysterious employer.  He wants to get involved with the Alliance?"  There was a palpable touch of suspicion in Cinaed's question.  While the Black Chimaera had provided a location for the WBA to gather and, as proprietor, Cinaed had been at the center of that and had helped organize efforts, the WBA was and had always been a leaderless organization.  He was, at most, an organizer.  A facilitator.  Few wanted to repeat the mistakes that had been made in the past.  Never again would they be disposable pawns in one man's quest for personal power.  No witch or wizard served anyone else within the Wizarding Blood Alliance.

If these nameless individuals were hoping to do seize power and use the WBA for their own devices, they would quickly learn there would be hell to pay.  "What, exactly, are there interests?"

He was walking on a tightwire now, one strung hundreds of feet in the air and right across the lip of a smoldering volcano.  If the fall didn't get him, the inevitable eruption of molten lava surely would.  It didn't help that the chill in the air -- the one that he could almost ignore if he didn't think about it -- was growing ever sharper.  The natives of Knockturn, the real natives, were coming out to have a look.

"Oh, you know."  He gave a shrug, fleeting and careless, that would have come off as irreverent if it weren't for the way that his hard, dark eyes set on Tawse.  "How does that poem go that you have here in England?  The one about the phoenix Animagus?"[1]

To blow up King and Parliament.  He'd heard it once long ago, and as simple and Mugglistic as the rhyme scheme was, it had always struck a chord with his memory.  Aviad  still wasn't sure why a murderous wizard would be content with merely incinerating a Muggle king, but he couldn't help but admire the strange man-phoenix's sense of the dramatic.

"Your ministry here hasn't done any of us a favor." He gave a half-smirk and a quick shake of his head, fluttering his hand to emphasize the point.  "Not you and not me.  And certainly not anyone I'm working for.  We can all agree on that, yeh?  But I think we can also agree,"  he added, eyebrows raising, "that the way that wizards have gone about fixing this in the past haven't worked.  You don't start a revolution by building from the top down.  Change -- real change -- that needs to come from the people."

1.	The  fine difference between Fawkes and Guy Fawkes tends to be a point of confusion for many overseas wizards.

“Tawsey!” A female voice came from the front door of the small black widow shop. The door was slammed shut behind her with a flick of her knobbly crooked wand and the lock clicked into place. Dark brown eyes scanned the room and its inhabitants and pale lips curved into a smirk.

“Company. How special.” Nicola practically glided further into the room on the tall heels of her spikey black boots. She started to unwrap her scarf from around her neck and stretched it out in front of her. “A new pet?” The excitement built within her as she crossed the room and came to face Aviad. Her eyes slowly took him in as her arms with the scarf slowly lifted and wrapped the scarf around his neck. Pressing against him she pulled him close.

“Handsome pet.” The young witch mumbled, pressing her hips against his. It was then that her smile vanished and she stared hard at Cohen. “I’ve seen you.” She’d even shared a word with him hadn’t she? Nic didn’t remember faces well.

Tugging on the scarf around the wizard’s neck she turned to face Cinaed. “What are you doing bunny?”

Still draped casually and comfortably over the chair set haphazardly in the corner of the darkened shop, Cináed's gaze sharpened on Cohen with unmistakable scrutiny.  Steel grey eyes carefully measured the expression on Cohen's face, looking for any hint of glee, anticipation or impatience that might indicate a concealed, unspoken motivation.   But, there was nothing there that Cináed could see and, so long as the man's words were sincere, he was speaking with a kindred spirit. 

But, he knew that already, didn't he?  It was why Cohen had asked him to meet.  Presumably. 

"Your ministry here hasn't done any of us a favor."

The ex-Azzie chuckled, once, and shook his head, his intense scrutiny of Cohen easing from his demeanor.  The man across from him hardly seemed a threat and the man's purpose for being here seemed for more important than humoring a disgruntled ghost's paranoia any longer.  "No.  They have not.  A change in the order is definitely long overdue.  However, our Ministry?  Your employer is also not British?  Word of our efforts have traveled that far?" 

"There are plenty amongst us who are tired of playing the groveling guilty for charges that were not our own.  We are left hiding - hiding our strength and hiding our pride.  These people down here don't want to have to chose between assimilation and isolation.  They want-" 

And, with Nicola's arrival, Cináed's soapbox was cut short by the sound of his name.  With an ever so noble sounding "y" tagged onto the end.  Behind every revolutionary was bound to be a meddling lass keeping his ego in check.  "Witches."  Cináed's tone was simultaneously apologetic and explanatory as he watched Nicola descend upon the man. 

Cináed kept a careful eye on Nicola as the witch had her fun, ready to intervene if it became necessary.  "We're meeting about business.  Politics."  Topics which rarely piqued Nicola's interest.  "He requested to meet to discuss some folks that might be interested in joining in our cause.  But, you've seen him before?" 

He wasn't exactly resisting the sudden change in conversation -- nor the sudden proximity of the witch in her spikey black boots and her supple scarf.  Aviad smirked, cocking an eyebrow, his hand dropping to find a convenient resting place as the woman pressed her hips against him.

"Yeh?" he asked bemusedly, flashing a crooked smile.  "Usually I'm the one using that line.  Don't tell me: I've been running all through your dreams?"

Chuckling, he slipped a hand inside the scarf, entwining the material around his fingers to relieve some of the pressure.  "Yeh, I've been in town for a few days," he informed Cinaed, his free hand going to Nicola's waist.  He'd quickly learn just how welcoming this witch wanted to be.  "Getting a feel for the locals.  They keep you on a tight chain, this government.  It's hard to even have a quiet drink without some red robe in sight."

Cinaed's smirk broadened as Cohen made an attempt to bring the conversation back to business, despite the witch's presence.  The ex-Azzie pulled a rolled cigarette from his pocket and lit it, inhaling the blue-grey smoke leisurely. 

"They are an eclectic bunch," Cinaed confirmed as the fellow admitted to meeting the locals.  Nicola was, most certainly, a perfect example of that eccentricity and Cinead loved every oddity down the dark, twisted alley.  He loved it, but he knew it was foolish to linger too long out in the open.  Nicola could play with her new toy after Cinaed had slipped back into hiding.

"Back to your employer," Cinaed prompted, between drags off the cigarette.  "What are they hoping for?  What are they willing to contribute to the effort?"  And, of course, who were they?  Cinaed suspected that information was being held until there was more of an established comradery.  "If it's just a locale to kick back a few away from the red robes, I think I can help there.  But, I get the impression that's not all."

Aviad flashed the big Scotsman a smile, harsh and pointed.  He gave the witch one last pat and then slipped his arm free.  Assuming he lived through the next half hour, there would be plenty of time to carry on with that game.  For now, he ought to focus on the one that had much higher stakes.

"Well.  I would never say no to kicking back --" He flashed a pointed smirk in Nicola's direction, and then refocused on Cinaed.  "--but you're right.  There's more to it than that, brother."  He gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.  "A beer without an interruption is nice, but I like my beer without any chance of interruption.

The big wizard had lit up a cigarette, and now Aviad's fingers were twitching, wanting to reach for his own.  He clenched his hand shut instead, squeezed it tightly to still it.  There would be a time for lighting fires soon enough.

"They want change," he said simply.  "No more hiding.  No more this --"  He snapped his fingers at the door.  "--with the Ministry.  Enforcing what they want, ignoring what they like, and trying to keep the rest of us under their thumb."  He gave a half-hearted shrug, his dark eyes already fixed on Cinaed's.  "And they are thinking that some of the locals might be tired of always taking punches."

Change.  No more hiding.  Those words, of course, held several different meanings for the travel-worn ex-Azzie.  On a personal level, he knew nothing short of a complete overthrow would afford him the opportunity to emerge from hiding.  But, this was about more than himself that he wasn't just fighting for his own freedom.  If his subversiveness could mean that his son wouldn't have to hide his birth-given greatness, Cinaed would willingly face the consequences of his actions. 

One day.  Just, not yet.

"It would be glorious, wouldn't it?"  Cinead finally conceded, a scruffy grin stretching around the cigarette.  "Stand proud.  Tall.  Out in the open.  Not tucked in the shadows like delusional gutter rats." 

Cinaed leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  With cigarette balanced between his lips, Cinaed tapped his fingertips together as he spoke.  Even tucked away in the shadows of the Black Widow, it didn't take long for the ex-Azzie to get anxious, fidgety if he lingered in one spot for too long.  It was time to get down to business.  "Many of the locals are definitely ready to cast off the norms though they possess varying degrees of initiative.  Those with a history with Level 2 fear a third strike.[1]  They have a tendency to follow others lead, letting others be the guinea pigs.  With the right motivation and reassurance, though, they're a reliable bunch.  And, there are plenty of motivators in the ranks." 

There were many dissenters simmering just beneath the Ministry's gaze; quiet and cooperative enough to avoid close scrutiny.  Many others were confused or, perhaps, discouraged by the recent lack of Ministry dissent.  Few wanted to walk out on a limb alone.  "We need a rallying point.  A morale booster.  A call to arms."

1.	Released Azkaban prisoners who are still under Ministry surveillance risk additional, harsher penalties if they get in trouble, including  returning to Azkaban for an indefinite length of time.

When he'd come here, he would have been personally satisfied with merely walking out again.  Cinaed Tawse was a dangerous man, and this was a dangerous game that he was playing.  But walking out alone, of course, would have not been satisfactory to the ones who counted.  Chaos and confusion -- he could sow them on his own, of course.  But it would be so much more interesting if the locals were willing to play along.

And here he had Tawse -- not only willing to play, but willing to help him write the music.  A rallying point.  Aviad smiled, low and hard.  If Tawse thought that the inhabitants of Knockturn needed a call to arms, there was no doubt in his mind that they could come up with one to give them.  Twist the right arm and the Ministry would be easy to provoke.

"Tell you what, brother."  He flashed Tawse a smile, returning grin for grin.  "You make good on that offer of a drink, and maybe we can come up with a way to boost morale."  Judging by the papers, things had been quiet for far too long.  That was good.  Quiet meant that guards would be dropped.  And all it would take was one well-placed knife slid between the ribs to --

"But not here, yeh?"  He shot Nicola a smile.  "No offense.  I'm happy to stop in later.  Business first, though."  He turned his gaze and his smirk back to Tawse.  "It's been quiet enough that I'd hate to leave such a reliable bunch waiting for very long."

"That I can do."  Cinaed offered a broad, congenial grin.  "We offer some of the best drinks in town.  'Fraid I can't say the same about the food." 

Cinaed once more leaned back in his chair, hooking an arm casually over the back of it.  In the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't be certain who would come.  Not out of doubt in his fellow Knockturn-ite, necessarily.  He knew he'd lost touch with his usual crowd, for obvious reasons, and they could be a flighty, moody bunch. 

But, with a grin and a loud clap, he shoved those thoughts from his mind and pushed himself to his feet.  He had unwavering faith in his brothers and sisters.  They were family.  At the end of the day, he knew they could be trusted. 

"Meet me back here in a couple of weeks.  By then, everything should be in order.  We'll get you a pint and we can talk more, away from prying eyes and ears."  Before then, there were a few last finishing touches on the new pub.  He had protective wards to erect and an old blind dog to track down.  He would miss the pub's previous home, of course, but in short order the new place would feel like home. 

With that, Cinaed pulled his traveling cloak around him and offered a hand to the man.  He couldn't leave the way he came, of course.  His winged form remained a closely guarded secret - even Nicola was privy to that bit of information.  So, instead, he pulled the hood low over his face and slipped out onto the alley.  He wondered deeper into the shadows of the alley until he found a deserted corner where he waited patiently until the alley was empty before shifting and taking flight.