10pm, Rover's Fancy. Diagon Alley.


"Vermeil ale, won't you please?"

Balfour nodded at the bar witch as he loosened his scarf. "It's on Margo's tab, wherever the lady is."

While winning bets generally put him in a good mood, he'd had to tell the division staff to go ahead with Amherst on account of an emergency in Pembrokeshire- but here he was at the bar table, an hour late and still prompt to collect a debt. The place was swarming with familiar faces; a few had stopped to mention that he 'cleaned up well', which fell somewhere in between complimentary and offensive.

"Aye: vermeil ale," the server slid his pint across, smiling- it glistened bloody and Balfour tossed cast his head back to  take a deep draft. "Not all at once, luv~" she teased warmly.

He stopped, placing the tankard down with a guilty simper. "You're too kind Marie." The coquettish glint in her eye went blissfully unnoticed. "I'll take it slow if you'll get me a dish? Haven't had a thing since lunch."

Marie wandered off and Balfour's eyes followed her form thoughtfully. He took another swallow.

The latter half of February was turning out to be kind of a roller coaster for Margo.  She didn’t really understand what had changed in her life, what cosmic forces were attempting to force her into adulthood, but she didn’t like it.  Then there were feelings and stuff – things she didn’t really like to acknowledge even existed, and they had this pesky tendency to dampen whatever fun she was having. 

She had legitimately been stalked by an oppressive wet blanket of feelings, all too interested in putting out any and all fires.  So, she shed the armour of work for something more casual and ingested a drink the second she got to the bar.  Apparently, her tab had already been started.   

The opportunity to pay up for her loss with Balfour was one more opportunity to attempt to forget all of these things.  Thankfully, after her run in with the wand maker, she actually remembered some of the stuff he said about how to fix her wand up, at least enough for it to want to associate with her to get into her vault. 

She came armed and ready with galleons for days. 

Thank Merlin, because it looked like word had gotten out to the entire department – let alone their division – that drinks were on her.  Ah well, nothing the family vault couldn’t handle.  Everyone seemed to be having a good time, even if the man of honor showed up late. 

Margo noticed him show up though (while looking for another party she figured might not show up, but even after fighting with him fairly constantly for the past month, she still wanted to see).  “Balfour!” she grinned and pushed through a small gathering of Disposal of Dangerous Creatures (Wendell was staring fairly hard, and Margo grimaced as she passed). 

Sliding up to the bar next to him, Margo grinned, serendipity intervened and at the same time she needed a drink, she motioned to the bartender, and seemed to have to wave twice.  The lady, it seemed, was distracted.  She only seemed to notice when Margo snapped and then huffed, off to retrieve a drink for her.  She slid a sideways glance toward Balfour, “So, is that,” she jerked her thumb toward the bartender who was being pulled in twelve different directions by patrons eager to spend her (family’s) money, “the reason you picked this place?” and wiggled her eyebrows for effect.   

The Rover's Return had a different vibe on a Saturday than the weekdays. Elixa had spent the past hour or so making idle conversation with patrons as they had come and gone, and even the barmaid when she wasn't sprouting extra arms to serve the masses at the bar.

The wizard who had mentioned his lack of eating all day looked vaguely familiar, and she pressed the glass to her lips quietly as they spoke, wondering why. He certainly seemed popular as there were a group of them and as one of them called to him, she caught his name. Her mind shot back through mental records, of names mentioned at the counter of the hospital apothecary to a recollection of an article in the newspaper. There was something else, but she couldn't quite place it, not paying adequate attention to the radio on a night shift.

A sight of a woman clad in leather joined the group who all seemed to know each other. Not family, although the numbers of them, no clear family resemblance. Friends? Well, that was a hell of a number of them, which left colleagues or some sort of party that joined more than one circle together.

Feeling a little sore for an argumentative week in her shared lodgings, Elixa was rather indulging in studying others, as if trying to learn why they acted certain ways, what she could be doing wrong in her own life. The unrelenting gaze attracted attention, along with the dark curls falling around her shoulders, shadowed eyes and flattering crimson dress. Saturday nights when not tied to the weighing scales and jars of the hospital, were a celebration. It was just a pity that Saturday her arrangements had rather fallen foul to the scheduling of other shackles to desks or commitments.

When the leather clad witch thumbed towards her, Elixa glanced from them to the bartender and back. Was it her or the staff being referred to? The best part of a bottle of wine to herself decided it was her, so she scooped up the last half glass and headed over, enough dutch courage in her frame to squeeze up a seat amongst them all like she'd known them forever.

"Who are we drinking to?" She asked the group in general, ignoring their curious glances as to who this stranger was.

He hadn't been surprised to hear his name called out by that voice- or to see Margo's visage peeking out from her changed social appearances. Perhaps she had experienced another disagreement with a jacket.

"The reason I...?" Balfour's gaze stole in the barmaid's direction and flushed, understanding his friend at once. "N-no, don't be... I mean, Marie's just...well she's just, you know. Marie." His ears burned- he tried not to think of flaxen hair or the way her waist arched just as she turned to reach for something. "You're an utter nuisance Amherst."

Desperately needing to unsee the image in his mind, the wizard looked away from the bar and lifted his drink- only to find that in his embarrassment, another woman had popped up next to them. He blinked, nonplussed for a moment: she was rather pretty.

"I'm... I'm not sure," Balfour answered. He thought about stepping back and somehow drifting away but between the two witches, the bar and the crowd- well there wasn't much room for escape. He threw Margo a faintly distressed look before glancing back at this new stranger.

"Dragons? I, ah, drink to dragons." Gods it always goes back to dragons. "And goblins maybe." That was new, wasn't it?

Margo practically howled with laughter as he started to turn red, all the way up to the tips of  his ears.  She swore, in that moment, he was a ginger in every sense of the word. 

Needing a good laugh more than anything, it had made tears prick up at the corners of her eyes, and Margo reached up to wipe the tears away.  She didn’t typically do the make-up thing, but eyeliner, she didn’t really consider falling into the overworked category, and she didn’t need tears having it run down her face.  She wasn’t a Wicked Sister. 

“You’re only mad ‘coz I’m right,” Margo grinned like the Cheshire cat and elbowed him in the side.  Really, that was far too easy.  Margo was about to say something to the bartender when she came back with her glass (rather generously full), but another woman – who Margo hadn’t seen before – but apparently felt she could come over, sat down beside Balfour. 

Well!  Despite the fact he was about as smooth as the outside husk of a coconut, maybe there was some charm there.  …Or maybe not.  Goblins, really? 

Margo rolled her eyes again.  “What my friend, Balfour,” she purposefully used his name as she slapped him on the back – dual purpose of establishing they were only friends, and telling him to shut up, “means to cheers to,” she cut him a brief glance before looking back to the woman, “is him.  He’s humble, you see, and doesn’t want to publically advertise that it’s his fault our entire department is drinking out of my pocket tonight.” 

Sitting back down all the way, Margo raised her glass a little and smirked,  “Cheers, Balfy.”

"Dragons? I, ah, drink to dragons and goblins maybe."

“What my friend, Balfour, means to cheers to, is him.  He’s humble, you see, and doesn’t want to publicly advertise that it’s his fault our entire department is drinking out of my pocket tonight. Cheers, Balfy.”

Curious that the leather-loving witch the other side of the slight, interesting looking yet eye-appealing wizard between them stated up front that she was a friend. Unwittingly for them both, this just advertised the two as potential companions for a night, the shorter, red wine drinking apothecary not conforming to single gender attraction.

"So we drink to him, and also you, fine lady. I didn't catch your name?"

The wine allowed this observation to be laid a little plainer to her more sober counterparts as her intense gaze lingered with Margo a moment longer than was comfortable before looking back to Balfour, as he had been introduced.

"Oh! Have I stumbled into a group of unspeakables from the mysterious London halls?" Elixa asked, her Scandinavian accent ever more obvious from the flow of words in English.

Not for the first time in his life (nor, it seemed, the last, as the bar suddenly filled with employees from Disposal of Dangerous Creatures), Rick wondered if he really did do something awful in a past life, something shitty enough to warrant more awkward (and sometimes dangerous) instances such as this than anyone else had to deal with in half a year. He supposed it could be worse, that instead of DDC suits he could be looking at WCU stiffs right now (especially that, when asked, any of either would be the first to point out the difference), but said difference didn’t mean shit when both groups saw his kind as just another kind of dangerous animal at worst. As far as he was concerned, he’d just become a freaking ‘puff in a den full of kneazles. Without warning, a quiet night at the bar had become not-so-quiet with the potential of becoming much, much worse, and a smart guy would quietly pay his tab and slip out the back door before anyone was the wiser…

But. On the other hand, there was Margo– good ol’ Margo, who he hadn’t gotten the chance to catch up with the last time he’d seen her –with a flushed, rather harried-looking version of Alex’s uncle, who had pretty much made Rick reconsider certain life choices with a mixture of dread and mortification, which was no small feat. That alone would have tempted the werewolf, who hadn’t gotten to where he was today without taking risks—including, yes, the ones he probably, maybe… definitely shouldn’t have taken, that made him the reckless asshole his sister accused him of being when he did.

And so Rick rose from his seat, chair creaking under the pressure until it wasn’t, and grabbed his beer on the way over. Taking a long, heady, drawn-out drink that had him tipping his head back and sighing, he stalked his way over to them, his much larger frame (helpfully clad in a tight-knit sweater and a pair of steel gray jeans that did more for others than it did for him) and a quick, decidedly wolfish and shamelessly panty-dropping smile helping him get through the crowd. Spotting that familiar figure in crimson, he almost dropped it in surprise, but if anything it came back brighter than ever as he came up behind Balfour, clapping a large, firm hand on the man’s shoulder that CeeCee would have given him the stink-eye for.

“Nah,” he answered Elixa, cutting in as smooth as butter, his smile a friendly half-moon of nearly too-sharp teeth behind Balfour’s head—that appreciative quality it had, as his gaze landed on the women, making it wicked. “Just your hardworking bunch from Beast Division. Aren’t you?” He gave Margo a teasing smirk in greeting, slanting it around to Elixa until it came to rest on Balfour… even worse than before. “I can’t even imagine what work must be like. But it can’t be too bad, if you’ve got her-” he smirked at the woman, “-paying.” Her declaration had been pretty loud.

He looked at both workers then, curiosity replacing the glint in his eye. “What are you guys here for?” he asked, just before taking another swig. With the hand he’d had on Balfour’s shoulder, Rick wiped his mouth with the back of it, and continued with his voice a little rougher than before, “are congratulations in order?”

Balfour was spared the mortification of throwing his desk jockey a look of gratitude- and from awkwardly correcting the lady in red - by a familiar face. He'd known who it was as soon as the strong hand clamped down.

"Donovan," the greeting escaped through a clenched jaw while he avoided the other wizard's supercilious smirks. Yes... he was most certainly trapped now. There was a better chance of absconding from a paddock of hatchlings than this lot.

The sinking feeling in his chest was ignored in favour of social graces- largely because there was the pretty barmaid, still serving drinks in the crowd, and the witch with the dark curls. It would be rather juvenile to accost Rick in front of them. Balfour drank from his tankard broodingly until: “are congratulations in order?”

He choked.

"Gods, man!" a short series of coughs. "No. I'd made a bet, you see-" he glanced at Elixa as his brow wrinkled earnestly. "- on whether Margo here would be addressed several Howlers. Naturally, I won." At this, Balfour's eyes slid over to the other witch, gleaming with devilment. "Wasn't much of a wager, was it?"

Margo couldn’t help herself: she laughed.  Fine Lady, if her accent didn’t give it away, that line surely would have distinguished this woman as distinctly not English.  Margo would wager everyone in England, whether they knew her or not would be very clear on her status as a ‘fine’ lady with one judgmental look over the rim of a teacup. 

“My name’s Margo.  Your’s?” she added, to at least address one of the questions and realizing they hadn’t actually heard hers yet… some etiquette had slipped in from childhood, but… This could not get any better: in addition to a very uncharacteristically bumbing Balfy, now there was Rick Donovan: consistent thorn in the sides of most people, she assumed, and a… friend of hers from not too terribly long ago.  Naturally, he was inclined to hop into the conversation without introduction (as Margo would have – perhaps why she smirked at him), and watched his hand connect with Balfour’s back, wincing just a spot as she did. 

Rick didn’t know how to play nice.  At one point, that had been supremely appealing.  Still kind of did… but that ship sailed, especially as Rick asked if congrats were in order.  Some of her whiskey went straight up her nose with the force of her snort, and Margo coughed, practically choking as it burned.  Firewhiskey plus nose was not a good combination.

Grasping at the tissues on the bar, Margo grabbed one and put it to her face, not even trying to hide how ridiculous she looked and then furrowed her eyebrows at Balfour while her nose and mouth remained covered.  “Maybe I wanted to lose,” she said behind the napkin before dragging it down over the rest of her face and tossing it back onto the bar once she was satisfied her nose was not dripping anymore, even if her voice was just a little extra scratchy sounding because of the accidental inhale. 

“After all, s’not every day you get to see your boss at the bottom of a bottle, is it?” she grinned cheekily at him, and then looked around at the other members that had slowly started forming a little party.  “Had to get you to loosen up somehow – or, at the very least, help someone help you loosen up,” she winked obnoxiously, open-mouthed and everything just to be a jerk.

“My name’s Margo.  Your’s?”

"Elixa, lovely to meet you Margo, and ," her eyes slid from one to ther other, "… Balfour."

Now here was a face she did recognise. Rick from that January night where the Leaky Cauldron was filled with all weird people for Johann's birthday. He'd not even been there to celebrate, but she'd been captivated by that very smile he had on his face now.

"Well hello there," she uttered lowly to Donovan before raising her eyebrows and nodding "Beast Division are we?"

"… wasn't much of a wager, was it?"

"Depends who sent them." Elixa replied with a raised eyebrow and a giggle, her wine glass to her lips for a sip after.

But her comment was probably lost by the spluttering of newly acquainted Margo who had attempted to inhale her firewhiskey.

"He's your boss then, what of all these people? Ooh, never take a bet with your boss, even if they lose they pull rank." Elixa shook her head. "You want some water?" She asked Margo, the underlying concern that had led her to study healing still there beneath the wine.

"Long time, no see," she added to Rick, serving a smile reminiscent of that night in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Had to find your way over did you?" She teased.

Watching them splutter and choke, Rick grinned, a frisson of smug satisfaction dimpling his cheeks. Any opportunity to get a rise out of either, he believed, shouldn’t be wasted, and he toasted to that with another, innocent sip. It tasted a lot like a pat on the back.

Of course, he didn’t dwell on it for long—couldn’t, when he had a smile to welcome and return, and so he did. “I should ask you the same thing,” Rick easily returned, giving her drink a slight jerk of his chin. There wasn’t much more in it than there was in his own. “But that’s a question that answers itself, I think.”

A mention of wagers, however, didn’t, and so he glanced over at the pair again, amusement openly creeping into his grin. While the matter of why anyone would get a Howler, much less several, (although it was a widely accepted fact that where one went, others could be expected to follow) was an interesting one in and of itself, Rick was much more interested in that ‘loosening up’ bit; if there was one thing he was good at (other than being an excellent Artificer and a pretty big jerk himself), it was that.

He could even do it with one hand, you might say.

“Another drink, then,” he suddenly announced, eyes crinkling with malice  good humor as he slapped Balfour’s back. Decisively. “For our good friend Balfour. That’s just your first, right?”

"Contrary to popular belief, office work in the Beasts division is dull enough for us to be placing bets~"

Balfour smiled self-consciously at Elixa: he rather appreciated a spot of gambling on a slow day and they would be worse off if Margo thought never to incite her superiors. The smile faltered at the stranger's familiarity with Donovan- but why didn't that surprise him? Ricky seemed like he knew just about everything that might trot around town in heels or a skirt.

The artificer's leer did not help this perception.

"Good friend?" Balfour grimaced amusedly, still feeling the sting of the other man's slap between his shoulder blades. "Win a wager and all of a sudden I'm everyone's good friend-" he drained the tanker of crimson ale. "- it was my first, correct."

Marie had swung around the bar to fetch another drink but he tried not to notice this, concentrating instead on the two ladies in company. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this close to so many people in a room. One tended to keep a physical distance with dragon tamers.

"You won't have much luck trying to loosen me up-" Balfour addressed Margo as the second ale slid over. "Scotsman's tolerance, you see. Not sure if even your pockets are deep enough."

Although the wizard was long past the age of testing that theory.

Too bad Margo was too busy choking for most of the next bit of conversation.  She shook her head and waved at the offer of water: water was for sissies at a bar.  She’d rather chase with a beer then go back to the hard stuff… but she’d hardly start saying that out loud. “I’m good,” she coughed. 

She really hated when someone said something funny when you took a drink… it was probably the rudest thing that anyone could do, and for Margo to even comment on the… polite content of a conversation… that was something.
 
Granted, since it came from the mouth of Rick Donovan, it was obvious the intent wasn’t to be polite.  Sniffing, she was fairly sure most of it had come out, and she was able to clear her throat again, more fully, before adding her two cents.  “Seems Rick always manages to find his way into situations where someone needs to loosen up,” she grinned at the darkly handsome man, a cheeky wink his way. 

At the motion for another drink, Margo raised her glass, which was woefully close to empty and most of it had ended up all over her lower mouth and chin.  If Rick could read minds, he would have mind a comment…

They’d probably all be too busy latching onto Balfour’s last comment, at least Margo did.  She laughed, loud and bright, and leaned against the bar.  “Don’t doubt me, Balfy,” she watched as the second glass was also slid over to her, and she beamed.  Excellent service! 

She shrugged out of her jacket, and cracked her neck at the same time.  This was serious business, and it was definitely time to get serious.  “I smell another bet, Balfour,” she reached up to her shoulder, decorated with her scale-scar tattoo and adjusted the strap.  “Feeling extra lucky, boyo?” 

outfit

Charlotte let the warm wash over her before she unclasped her cloak, thinking it wiser to do so near the door. She hung it with the mass of other cloaks and adjusted her purse. The place was crowded, even for a weekend. It seemed that the weather had not dissuaded anyone from a night out. But then whiskey could be very warming, and who wanted to be alone on a Saturday?

The young woman glided through the crowd, her large blue gaze easily landing on an overly familiar back. Who wouldn't recognize that, in that sweater and those jeans? She smiled as she came up beside Rick, who was standing behind a row of patrons, apparently having not bothered to find a stool.

Charlotte looked around, noting the sizable number of Ministry personnel, some of whom she had been in school with, others who still wore distinctive robes after hours, and others still who had the telltale signs of exhaustion that spelled government desk job. “Did you join the Ministry?” She asked, and the words lingered a good two seconds before her eyes finally returned to Rick, whose cheek she leaned up toward to peck in friendly greeting, even as a hand on his arm attempted to force him down to better accommodate her. (The stubble tickled, but did not catch her lipstick, lucky for her old friend, who hardly appeared to need the outline of a kiss on his dark cheek.) “Where’s your badge?” She demanded lightly. The irony, the sheer improbability of the werewolf artificer joining the Ministry of Magic danced invisibly around them; Charlotte took delight in it.

Her eyes roamed the group with whom he had been conversing, and she immediately recognized Margo Amherst. They had been in school together, had grown up attending the same parties. And no doubt a couple of Charlotte’s brothers were fond of her. She worked with dragons and looked fantastic in leather trousers. What was not to like? Charlotte slipped past Rick and into the seat beside Margo, which had been proffered by a somewhat hopeful-looking young man who couldn’t have been more than a year out of Hogwarts. “Margo, you look well,” she said, with a grin that bordered on curiosity as she ignored the child who had given up his seat. She had caught the tail-end of a supposed bet, and looked down the bar to take in the takers.

The man with whom Margo was supposedly betting was unfamiliar. His hair was catching. His cheekbones, too. He seemed quite tall, even seated, particularly compared with the petite, pretty brunette on his other side— another unfamiliar face. “Rick, are you going to introduce me to the rest of your friends?” She asked, already leaning into the bar to study them more carefully. “I’m Charlotte.”

The very busy barmaid appeared to take her order (wine). "Tell me more about this bet."

He laughed then, at Margo’s quip, ending it with an embarrassed groan. Or, at least, a groan, because ‘embarrassed’ he wasn’t when it came to the verity of that statement. “It’s a gift,” Rick conceded, ducking his head with a smile just this side of bashful; his sisters would have hexed him in the face.

He was still smiling, avidly watching Margo and Balfour kick up another bet, when a familiar voice reached his ears—Charlotte. As she reeled him in, Rick’s features shifted into a sharp, dazzling grin; even a year or so after breaking up, her lips were still plush, warm and welcome against his cheek. Maybe it was friendship talking, but she was still one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. “Right where your handcuffs are,” he purred in greeting, straightening. The view improved considerably. “You forgot to take them back.”

But even as he watched her take a seat– affectionately, for all he admired how good that dress looked on her, like she’d been poured into it –he did have manners, and he tore his gaze away. Folding his arms, he smiled privately, “Elixa. We met at her cousin’s party”; more openly, he smirked, “Balfy,” before toasting to the Head of Beast Division’s newfound moniker (and subsequent expression) with a drink. Life was good. “He’s almost family~”

Around the lip of the bottle, Rick grinned at the man innocently.