The Hogshead; 19:35

“Humanity is not perfect in any fashion; no more in the case of evil than in that of good. The criminal has his virtues, just as the honest man has his weaknesses.” - Les Liaisons Dangereuses

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It was not often that Josephine made her ways to Hogsmeade.  It held little interest for her, even as a student she had never been much for the quaint little town.  At a young age she would have much rather used the time to practice quidditch in futile attempts to impress her mother than spend time roaming around little streets with other students for sickeningly sweet treats or toys. 

As an adult, it held less appeal.  Children, families - really, it was too much of a liability.  Though, in certain circumstances the anonymity that a crowded place could hold was a boon, indeed.  Tonight, even despite the  thinned out crowd that a night without students would provide, the village was still busy - and Josephine was thankful. 

Clutching onto one item in her pocket, perhaps for good luck - or a reminder that it was still there - Josephine pushed her way into the Hogshead (for which she was disgustingly overdressed) and let her eyes roam for a moment. 

It was fairly busy inside as well, thankfully – less likely anyone would pay them mind, and she didn’t even spot him at first.  Her eyes roamed over the strange place, spotting her target and she moved quickly, mission-like, toward his back - she would, after all, recognize him anywhere. 

“I believe,” she said at a close range, though from behind – she could not observe what he was doing, “we have something to discuss.” 

He'd come here out of curiosity more than anything else. The summons had been quick and to the point.  Regretfully, the atmosphere was somewhat lacking; what this pub lacked in class it struggled to make up in discretion.

The mage had found a table well away from the door.  Even dressed simply in dark colors, he did not entirely blend in here.  Atash cocked a brow as the Cursebreaker approached, his eyes tracking her silently as she crossed the room. 

He'd ordered a drink from the bar -- he didn't entirely trust the fare here, and he didn't intend to drink alcohol tonight, but not to do so would have been to stand out entirely.  Atash raised his glass and took a slow sip, savoring the beverage as he seemed to consider her statement.

"Yes, I am quite well, thank you," he said at last, with only the faintest hint of anything more than politeness.  "It is quite kind of you to ask.  How does this evening find you, Miss St Just?"

As charming as ever, Josephine declined from commenting – but it did not stop the thought.  She wasn’t so brave to order anything from the bar, who knew where the glasses had been or what they had touched, and Josephine was just not interested in playing with even more fates than she already was. 

After all, this mere meeting could be the pebble that would tip the scales.  An infectious disease would not do her any favors. 

“Glad to hear it, professor,” she responded in an equally cool tone before she pulled out her seat across from him and gingerly sat down, wanting to avoid ruining her clothes and crossed her legs under the table as she folded her hands above it.

She pursed her lips, considering his question before answering, her auburn eyebrows darting upward.  “Better than a farmer in the highlands, from what I understand,” she finished with a small, forced smile.  “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

He'd come out of curiosity -- and already this was proving discreetly interesting.  Josephine St. Just prided herself on her charm and discretion.  To abandon both so quickly -- Atash took another sip of his water, his expression perfectly nondescript as she took the chair across from him.  To say that something had frightened the Cursebreaker was likely an understatement.

It did not take long for the first accusation to come, albeit indirectly.  Atash raised a brow, regarding her silently for half a beat as he returned the glass to the table.

"Farming?" he said mildly.  "No, unfortunately not.  I am afraid that my knowledge of Muggle agriculture fails me, madam."

“I didn’t imagine you were a skilled farmer,” Josephine responded with a distinct lack of amusement. 

This might have been fun and games for the visiting professor, but there were much larger stakes for many people – including Josephine – and for someone who had somewhere else to disappear to while the smoke was still thick, it probably didn’t seem like such a big deal. 

For Josephine, it was the world.  “However, butchering might be within your skill set.  Isn’t lamb a Middle Eastern favorite?” 

Suddenly, she was feeling a little parched and looking at the glass on the table, Josephine reached over and took a small sip before placing it down – the water had a strange aftertaste, though it did not surprise her. 

In an instant, the mage's expression had gone icy cold.

Gone was the mild curiosity from a moment before; gone was any attempt at polished propriety.  Still as stone, he regarded her from across the table, dark eyes narrowed and intent on her own.

"When I want to send you a message," he said, each word hard and biting, "I will not start with sheep."

The question of why she'd summoned him here had very quickly been answered.  Atash's gaze dropped to the glass on the table, which she'd just returned to its place.  He eyed it with disgust for a moment, and left it where it was, instead lacing his fingers together and resting his folded hands against the wood.

"I don't have your mask," he said, locking his eyes on hers.  "You know this, I think.  And yet you accuse me?"

 Ah, now this was the sort of conversation Josephine was used to having in a number of different localities.  It wasn’t odd sitting across from someone who could very well hex her out of existence, and it wasn’t unusual for Josephine to just mull her jaw a little and let her muscles relax.

She was not afraid of him, and certainly whatever messages he intended to send, he could.  She cared about very few things – it was hard to hurt someone who had little to hurt. 

Flicking her eyes back up, they were instantly locked to his – powerful stares could do that, and Josephine blinked slowly before she uncrossed her legs and readjusted on her seat.  “Me? Accuse you?” she practically purred with amusement as she pushed her shoulders forward, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, but just barely. 

“Oh Professor, you have my intentions mistaken,” she leaned back a little, “It doesn’t matter if you have it when you can do its work without it.”

Quite neatly, St Just had turned the tables.  They'd moved past manners and politeness into another game.  There was a biting, hard anger building in his chest, and as amusement flickered across her expression, his face stayed cold.

He was not interested in these games.  If Josephine St Just had lost control of the match that she was playing with, he would not be tasked with putting out the fire.  He'd left that world behind six years ago, and if he'd ever briefly revisited it, at least he had done so because of family, and not this woman's manipulations.

His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his neck held tight.  He swallowed, though it did little to ease the tension, and leveled a gaze in her direction.

"I am not a cat's paw for you to set against whoever is playing in your Scottish fields, Miss St Just." He spoke steadily, though there was an underlying acridity to the words. "Why does this concern you?  Surely an outside competitor will not cause your price to drop so severely."

When someone was so serious about something, even if it was far more important to her, Josephine could not help herself.  She had the instincts of a jungle cat – the more agitated prey got, the more she wished to play with it. 

She tried to quell some of that desire in the moment, however, because unlike a jungle cat she knew when the poachers were at her back.   

“Again, you misunderstand me,” she chided with the click of her tongue.  Shaking her head, she sniffed lightly, almost as though she were disappointed in him.  “It’s not a price I’m concerned with – though,” she side eyed him, lifting her hand to look at her nails, “if you’ve heard anything regarding pricing – I’d be glad to hear it.” 

She lowered her hand after blowing a bit of dust off the tops of her nails and looked back at him.  “My real concern is why Scotland,” her eyes flicked over as much as she could see of him from the table up, “and why so close to you all of a sudden?”  She waited a beat, "Have you made some of my friends angry, Professor?"

A moment ago, she'd been accusing him of butchering the sheep -- and now just as suddenly, the act was a threat to his livelihood.  Atash didn't bother to glance at the stone on his bracelet as he regarded the Cursebreaker without a word.  She had come here in a panic, set on determining if he was a part of this -- and once he'd denied it, set on making him part of it, whether he agreed to participate or not.

"Apparently I do misunderstand you," he said sharply, eyes narrowing.

Why had she come?  Possibly to enlist him as an ally in determining who had slaughtered the sheep in the field.  He'd dismissed the act of butchery out of hand -- it was one thing to attempt such a spell on animals, and quite another to try it on a living, breathing mage who was capable of his own defense.    First the accusation, then the unveiled threat: she was seeking to rattle him, to force him into action.

Well, he was having none of it.  He'd agreed to meet her tonight in order to humor an old acquaintance; not to be subjected to the wiles of a Cursebreaker.  The mage raised his eyebrows, his jaw set.

"Miss St Just," he began steadily, despite his fraying patience.  "You invited me here, and instead of pleasantries, you greet me with accusations."  He pressed his mouth firmly shut for a moment, and then went on.  "I do not like being manipulated into action, least of all by one who should be so crude about it.  If there is something that you would ask of me, ask and be done."

She should have been more acutely understanding of Atash’s sensitivity toward certain behaviors she’d cultivated.  It was her nature to play games, to make things interesting.  The professor had left that life and apparently his sense of play behind with it. 

“My apologies for ruffling your feathers, Hendurabi,” she said in as soothing a voice as she could manage.  “I forget that not everyone enjoys these little games as much as I do,” she smiled a little now, acknowledging that she had been indulgent for her own sake.

But, that did not mean she was going to stop.  Her intentions upon coming here had hardly been realized, and she did need something from him.  “It’s obvious that whatever has happened to the Scots’ sheep was not extraterrestial,” she said plainly – referring to the ridiculous article’s assertion that it was definite signs of an alien experiment (honestly), “and I know very few who are talented enough to even attempt the ritual – let alone replicate it, even partially.” 

It was, of course, time to put her cards on the table: “Either someone is playing with magic they hardly understand – or my item has found its way to Scotland.  Either way, I need to know and you, at least had, a talent for this sort of thing.”