Balfour couldn't help the grin that escaped at the implication made.

They were old hands at many things - not ancient, mind you - but young yet. Young enough not to settle in their ways, grown men enough to anticipate it. He shook his head ruefully at the mention of bills. There was no end to them and he was fortunate enough to have a Landlord who did not seem set on exorbitant fees, even at this end of Muggle London.

"Potentially," the wizard enunciated the word carefully before glancing up at Casper, holding but not drinking his port. "Never had much luck with the Cup. Almost as little luck as I have with witches." He lifted the glass and then, thinking better of it, set the drink down.

Best to save the liver for tomorrow evening. His eyes dropped back to the pieces on the board as the newt curled around his wrist scampered up his sleeve. It reappeared at his collar while he leaned forward with a frown.

"King to F7." Balfour knew this particular game would not end well for him- still he returned to their conversation in good humour, temperament of a seasoned gambler. "I might hop into a smaller pool than your father's, if at all." He sat back in his chair again, clearly not yet done with the subject. "Has speculation begun?"

Now Balfour was starting to sound like his wife. He took a slow and thoughtful breath in, head tilting in consideration. Yes, potentially. That was the beauty of gambling, though; one minute, your luck could be down in the sewage, and the next! It’s back on top. And if you had a winning streak...

Merlin help you when you fall. Luckily, Casper hadn’t yet experienced anything so dramatic as his father had. He partook in little bets here and there, things he felt confident in. Or a game of wizards chess for fun. Poker night with the boys. Things like that. He generally wasn’t allowed much for the Cup. But if his draft was picked... the potential was overwhelming to think about.

Casper glanced to the newt that Balfour seemed to be ignoring. He absentmindedly drew his finger in a slow circle on the arm of the chair, blinking back to the present. His mind had wandered, however briefly. Looking at the king in its new place, Casper set his chin in his hand, frowning in thought as he considered his potential moves.

A scoff of a laugh escaped him as his eyes glanced up to Balfour, smirking as his head stayed where it was. “Since the last Cup. But with it getting close... it’s more stats than I usually enjoy staring at.” Eyes moved back to the board. “Spain is probably out. They have been playing sporadically well. The United States team... I don’t think they’ll make the next bracket. It is even in the air whether England will qualify.” Deciding on a move, he finally lifted his chin from his hand, fingers interlocking lightly as they landed back in his lap. “Bishop to D8.” He watched with mild amusement as the bishop took out Balfour’s queen. A bishop!

Then again, there had been a game or two he’d been beaten by a pawn. “I’d love to see Wales make it.” Even if he was born in England, he had a soft spot for the Welsh. They had excellent coastal vacation spots. Clearly Casper had looked at enough team stats to speculate himself. "When is the next broadcast?" His gaze once again settled on his mate, the queen swept aside as his bishop stood between Balfour's.

Balfour nodded along as his friend went over the likelihood of competitors- looking up only at the mention of England, with a startled expression. He was so surprised that he barely acknowledged the dark Queen being taken.

"I can't believe that." It seemed almost beyond imagining if the Cup began without England. And he wasn't even particularly patriotic about the south end of the island! "Could you just imagine the uproar? Team wouldn't hear the end of it."

Well. They wouldn't hear the end of it. Balfour leaned forward thoughtfully, oblivious as the newt at his collar began skittering up the back of his neck. He scratched his chin. Casper was making the betting pool a very tempting affair with that bit of speculation about England. Interesting gambles were the ones that got to him.

"How would Scotland be faring, then?" The Spectres weren't keen on Quidditch and it escaped the portents of their letter writing. "I could risk a steep bet if they make it." Gods! There it went: his national pride dipping its toes into the vault. The newt somehow found its way to Balfour's crown of rusted curls. He didn't think to take it down and indicated the board distractedly. "Castle to E4."

Whisky must have fallen asleep because they could hear him snoring now, a soft but thick rasping noise that made his owner smile contentedly. The kittens had disappeared under Casper's armchair; likely out of spite. Cats adored bothering those wizards who disliked them.

"I was thinking about recording a show tomorrow night-" Balfour made a dismissive gesture, picking up his glass. "- but I'll likely be too smashed. Will simply have to do it next weekend." Which was all for the best, news had been annoyingly slow lately. He was waiting for a bigger story to sink his teeth into.

“As long as a team from the UK makes it, it shouldn’t be too bad." It was odd that it wasn't certainty. "We’ll see, though. A lot of fresh blood in the rosters.” It made for uncertainty in bets, more than there already was. If you talked to seasoned gamblers, they would talk to you about knowing the odds and having the wherewithal and sense to bet or not bet. There were many times, however, those feelings were wrong. Casper’s father was a perfect example (and not one to emulate).

Ludo did have a good time, though. If you bought him enough firewhiskey, he’d start buying the bar for you.

At the questioning of Scotland, Casper frowned in thought at his mate across the board, tapping his chin in thought. It was a good question; how was Scotland doing? Finally he shrugged and grinned, though it faltered however slightly at the newt poking its head up from within Balfour’s hair. Just watching it made his head itch.

“I think they’re still testing out their new seeker. Came from the Harpies, you know.” Casper scratched his head absentmindedly as he looked down at the table, watching the castle move.

He would turn the wireless on to enjoy Balfour’s show (so long as it wasn’t on too late). Since it wasn’t on a set schedule, it was best to just ask the man in charge of it. “Too smashed? Hot date?” A smirk slid easily on his lips. As much as they had been joking about it... it wasn’t a bad idea for Balfour. And even if Casper prodded relentlessly, it was because somewhere underlying, he wanted his mate to find someone. “Knight to E4.” It was now just a matter of cornering the King. As the castle went down, Casper scratched his forearm with a grunt. He shifted in the chair to wait for the next move.

He made a mental note to have Mrs Lanningham check on Scotland's progress in the weekday.

In all likelihood, if Casper couldn't recall, it was unlikely that there was anything worth knowing- but at least he would have something to say the next time in Edinburgh or in the middle of a betting pool. The newt nestled in his crown was wiggling precariously towards his temples but Balfour was distracted by talk of Quidditch and the chess.

His castle went down, which he expected, although he had also thought that the hunt for his King would begin first. "Very nice," he complimented the opponent as there was little he could do to save the kingdom. "Bishop to A3." Besides self-destructive revenge.

One of the kittens tottered out from underneath Casper's chair and stood, in a kind of dumb drowsiness, underneath their board table. Balfour sat back in a relaxed kind of defeat as he crossed one leg over the other. The newt finally found its tail sticking out between his eyes and the wizard plucked it up with a half-smile.

"No, division drinks and you know what that lot is like-" he set the lizard down on the carpeted floor for the kitten, it didn't stir so much as stare. "- if I'm not hungover, I'll be nursing someone with a hangover. But don't worry..." Balfour grinned fondly at his friend. It was a bother that people fretted over his love life but he had sense enough to know that at least they cared. "I'll dress like a gentleman and perhaps one of the witches will mistake me for one."

Before paws could reach it, the newt shuffled away quickly into some dark corner of the study.