The shadows in Knockturn Alley danced almost gracefully off building walls and along the curbs and sidewalks. A broken street lamp in front of the Shodding Arms Hotel shrouded a tall, billowy figure from the light. And yet, this person liked the shadows just as much as they liked the kind of light caused by the embers of a burning flame.

The door to the shoddy residential establishment opened and just as quickly creaked closed, nearly capturing the hem of a long black cloak. But the deep crimson stitching that created a flame pattern disappeared with a rather loud snap, like that given off by burning  logs on new fire, as the cloak’s owner swiftly moved within.

The inside was no less shadowy than without. All that greeted this cloaked stranger was silence.

The hood to the cloak was lowered, revealing a salt and pepper crown of hair belonging to an old wizard. And yet, as he advanced further into the lobby, intent on inspecting it more closely with a discerning dark gaze, nothing about his gait suggested an advanced age. His posture was straight, making good on every inch of his height and his manner of movements were purposeful.

Seeing no attendant in the lobby, he did not despair. His time was valuable, yes. But at the moment he was in no rush. Spotting an ill kept lounge chair near one of the lobby fireplaces, he moved to settle his large frame into it with a whirl of his cloak.

Then, he extracted an ornately crafted amber stemmed pipe from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, the thick, wooly depths having made it strangely warm to the touch. Situating the pipe snugly into the corner of his mouth, anchored by a heavy bite of his teeth, he reached into his pocket again to extract his wand and proceeded to cast a spell to get his pipe-a-puffin.

And then he relaxed back in the chair and waited.

Coming in late from a night on the town (working), Dazmond Wiedman-Briggs made her gracious return to the crumbling palace she'd come to call home:  The Shodding Arms Hotel, room 73, top floor.  The sound the heel of her boots made on the broken cobblestones was meant to be imposing, her walk measured and her pace adroit to fend off pickpockets and other kinds who lurked round, working those shadows.  Such precautions were second nature and not the product of fear.  Dazmond was actually feeling an eerie sense of freedom all week, ever since she left her husband back in Azkaban.  It was a paranoid sort of openness where she felt herself checking over her shoulders for guards or restrictions, someone saying silently 'you can't do that' or 'you can't go there'.  Instead she was able to go anywhere, do anything she wanted. 

The front door swung open and clapped closed, admitting Dazmond.  As the door shut sharply, a few more chains of the lobby's once illustrious chandelier finally came loose.  The whole contraption swung four feet to the left and dangled from its new, lopsided resting place, one step closer to falling atop some unsuspecting visitor.   

Dazmond paused to glance, but nothing more.  The place had been falling apart long before Nathan moved in.  She was fairly certain that this particular broken chandelier had been put back up with a shoddy sticking charm a half dozen times since August.  For her, it was part of the charm.

She did stop short at the regal looking Wizard sitting in the lobby puffing on a pipe, however.  She didn't recognize him.  Was it an Auror?  Sorry for him the little Witch was nosy and somewhat territorial; in her mind the lobby blurred the line between public space and living room.  Perhaps she was a tad touchy... but wouldn't you be if you were operating on the black market and under a top wanted criminal overlord and had just toured Azkaban not seven nights past?

"Ay," she called across the lobby.  She crossed the short distance to where the Wizard sat, gazing at his fancy, imposing cloak.  "Help here is negligent.  Probably wrestling gnomes in the back room.  You rung the bell?  They respond to persistence, sometimes."

As another person entered the shoddy establishment, Vadim lazily looked up at the rattling chandelier that was disturbed in the process. His bushy salt and pepper brows raised with interest but he continued to puff away on his pipe as though he had not a care in the world.

Seeing the witch approach, Vadim dipped his head to acknowledge her respectfully, half expecting her to continue on her way without much fuss as often was the case with strangers passing each other by. But then she approached and spoke.

"Nyet," came his automatic response in his native tongue. Gruffly, he cleared his throat and spoke again, his next words thick with his Russian accent. "I vill vait. I am in no hurry. No need to vorry about an old man like me."

And with that,  he continued to puff away at that pipe of his...